


color in all the shades of the rainbow

by amjnyard



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Harry Potter & Tom Riddle Attend Hogwarts Together, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Possessive Behavior, Slytherin Harry Potter, Tom Riddle is His Own Warning, Unhealthy Relationships, there are ocs but only because the first wizarding war never happened so some ppl never died, think of this as magical synesthesia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:41:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26900818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amjnyard/pseuds/amjnyard
Summary: Tom traces a slow shape over Harry’s side. His mind flickers, trying to place the pattern of Tom’s fingers. Images explode across his gaze, a twisting snake on a pale forearm, blood running down skin, the pain of a brand. He flinches reflexively.Tom’s hand freezes. “Harry,” his voice has dropped to a whisper. “Are you okay?”Harry claws back his smile, even though his stomach is twisting over itself. Tom’s face doesn’t change, and now anxiety is creeping in and crawling up his throat. “Yellow,” he says again. “Like the sun exploded behind my eyes.”“Yellow,” Tom repeats with a bit of wonder. The impassive mask breaks, and he smiles, like he’s seen the sun itself. He leans forward, kissing Harry’s temple. His lips are feverishly hot. Again, red soaks through Harry’s mouth. He tries not to flinch away.Tom pulls away, his hand coming up to stroke the hair out of Harry's eyes. “Don’t worry,” he whispers, a long while later. Harry’s closed his eyes, hoping to fall asleep. Apparently Tom thinks he already has. “I’ll never let you go.”
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 41
Kudos: 336
Collections: Harry Potter





	1. This is How It Starts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry meets Tom, a curiously restrained boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello !! i came up w the idea for this back in april when uquizzes were blowing up and one of the questions inspired this !! i hope you enjoy <3

“What was it like?” Tom’s voice rolls over Harry, a low, smoky drawl. His arm is thrown over Harry’s stomach. Harry is staring at the ceiling, his vision blurry without his glasses. The arm across his midsection flexes when he doesn’t answer. “Harry?”

Harry turns his head, his eyes instinctively finding Tom’s. They’re silvery, and Harry isn’t sure if he’s imagining the ring of red that lines his pupil. He blinks, and it fades from his sight.

He thinks, honestly, of how to answer Tom’s question. What was it like? Harry parts his lips. Closes his eyes. Colors roll over him, red and black, and the bright shock of gold. The iron tang of blood rolls over his tongue, threatening to drown him in its intensity as he remembers the feel. He opens his eyes, meets Tom’s again.

They’re wide and open, vulnerable in a way that Tom is not often.

How can Harry tell him? How can Harry tell him that as Tom was inside him, forearms propping him up, his forehead pressed to Harry’s shoulder, panting Harry’s name in breathless whispers, that destruction was rolling over Harry’s vision, consuming him. He saw blood and death and torture and the glorious march of cloaked wizards through the streets, heads held high.

Tom would never look at him the same way again.

Or, maybe even more frightening, Tom wouldn’t care. He’d be pleased that Harry had seen his plans. Proud of the destruction he’d wrought.

Harry smiles instead, hoping that his smile isn’t bloody, the way he suspects it might be. Tom shows no surprise, no indication that anything’s wrong, so he supposes it’s fine. “Yellow,” Harry breathes out, his voice hoarse.

Tom traces a slow shape over Harry’s side. His mind flickers, trying to place the pattern of Tom’s fingers. Images explode across his gaze, a twisting snake on a pale forearm, blood running down skin, the pain of a brand. He flinches reflexively.

Tom’s hand freezes. “Harry,” his voice has dropped to a whisper. “Are you okay?”

Harry claws back his smile, even though his stomach is twisting over itself. Tom’s face doesn’t change, and now anxiety is creeping in and crawling up his throat. “Yellow,” he says again. “Like the sun exploded behind my eyes.”

“Yellow,” Tom repeats with a bit of wonder. The impassive mask breaks, and he smiles, like he’s seen the sun itself. He leans forward, kissing Harry’s temple. His lips are feverishly hot. Again, red soaks through Harry’s mouth. He tries not to flinch away.

Tom pulls away, his hand coming up to stroke the hair out of Harry's eyes. “Don’t worry,” he whispers, a long while later. Harry’s closed his eyes, hoping to fall asleep. Apparently Tom thinks he already has. “I’ll never let you go.”

Harry wishes he could cry.

Harry first becomes aware that something is different with him at age 7. His parents, James and Lily Potter, both went to Hogwarts and have assured Harry ever since he could conceptualize the idea of magic that he would as well.

He is playing by himself one morning, outside by the lake, grass stains on his hands and knees. Harry has created an army with his toy soldiers, and they’re getting ready to rage war on the toy knights in armor. His godfather, Sirius, had gifted him the toys on his last birthday, bright and laughing saying that “all kids need to play with non-magical toys sometimes, James, how else will they learn that not everything is magic?” and that “these toys will treat you right, Harry, just make sure not to swallow them or leave them in places you won’t remember.” and ruffling his hair.

Now, Harry has them set in ambush positions, his fingers nimble in assembling them. He spreads his hands over them, kneeling in the dirt. “Charge!” he says, widening his fingers and willing them to move. With a dull groaning noise, the toy soldiers come to life, guns coming down from over the shoulder and previously stuck together legs coming apart. The knights retaliate in turn, swords being pointed towards the oncoming soldiers and horses breaking into gallops.

With the great joy only a child masterminding an act of destruction could possess, Harry watches as the toys charge into battle.

“What are you doing?” A voice speaks behind him, and Harry jumps in fright. The toys freeze, falling onto their sides in exactly the condition they were before he commanded them, the spell broken with Harry’s concentration.

He looks over his shoulder, pretending like nothing is wrong. An old man is standing behind him, wearing a pair of yellow robes that look like the color of the lemon tarts his mother is so fond of. His beard is long and silvery and a pair of half-moon glasses sit at the end of his rather long nose.

“My mother told me not to talk to strangers,” Harry says, brushing his hands off of dirt. Lily had said no such thing, his mother was quite trusting and their home was rather in the middle of nowhere, but Harry had snuck peeks of Muggle television when he visited Sirius and it seemed like something children usually said when someone strange came up to them.

The old man tilts his head like he knows Harry is lying. “Did she now?” he asks. His voice is slow and calm, pleasantly amused. “How very wise of her.”

Harry frowns, already losing interest in the man. He’s probably come to see Harry’s father, something work related, and therefore none of Harry’s business. He turns back to his toys, getting ready to set them up in a new battle formation. He’s considering switching some of the soldiers for the army men, wondering if the small toys will know the difference.

“Harry,” the old man says, dragging Harry’s attention from the toys. “I asked what you were doing.”

Harry looks back over his shoulder, hair falling over his forehead. He frowns. “Playing with my toys,” he says mulishly. “Aren’t you here to see my father?”

The old man laughs. “I’m here for you,” he says. He takes a step towards Harry, his lemon-tart robes dragging on the grass behind him. Harry eyes him, wary. The lake is quite a-ways from the house, and he doesn’t know if he can run back to the house fast enough to find his parents. “Let’s go inside together, for we have much to discuss with your parents.”

Harry stands, still uncertain. He takes the man’s outstretched hand, only to crumple to his knees as splashes of blue and purple and red splash over his head.

He’s felt like this before, of course, ever since he remembers. Any time Harry touched anyone, he saw colors and images that never made sense. The only people he’s ever touched were his father, mother, and his godfather. From them, he always saw warmth in shades of green and gold and pink. He saw his father and mother dancing at their wedding, and heard the sound of the Muggle radio in Sirius’s kitchen and tasted warm, fresh bread.

Now, he feels water clawing up his throat trying to drown him, blood running down a pale arm, the sickening sound of something cracking. He feels a wave of anger and something more feral, followed almost instantly by the distinct feeling of regret.

Harry comes back to himself in his room. He’s tucked under the covers, the room dark around him. The low swell of voices from downstairs rises, drawing Harry’s curiosity. He feels fine, despite what happened, so he throws the blankets off his legs and creeps out of the room.

Hovering at the top of the stairs, he waits with bated breath as the voices become louder. The first floor is lit up in a soft golden glow, warm and comforting the way Harry remembers. “...he’s just going to get worse,” an unfamiliar voice says. With great effort, Harry pins it as that of the old man from earlier in the day.

“You can’t be serious,” his mother’s voice rises, sounding pleading and desperate. “We’ve taken every precaution, done everything you said.”

“Lily, calm down,” his father says. “Albus is just trying to help.”

His mother makes a sound of outrage, and Harry tries to make himself as still as possible. He’s never heard his mother so angry. “No, James. We moved into the middle of nowhere because Dumbledore said it would help. We stopped leaving the house. No one visits, except Sirius, and even he’s starting to stay away because he sees too many people and Harry can sense it. I want to know how to help my son.”

“I told you when you first came to me that a condition as rare as Harry’s is often difficult to manage or understand. When he was just a baby, I thought distance from magic would help. Clearly, the more exposure he has to magic, the more severe his condition will become.” The old man’s voice rings out. “Did you know what your son was doing when I found him this morning?”

Silence from both his parents. “Harry was playing with his toys,” his father says. “Sirius got him some Muggle figurines for his birthday. He was out by the lake.”

“Yes, he was,” the old man answers. “But he wasn’t just _playing_ with them. He enchanted them to move, turning them into magical figurines. He is already starting to pick up magic, to use it purposefully. It’s no wonder he had the reaction he did.”

“But,” his mother says, her voice shaking. “We’ve never taught him anything.”

A long sigh. “Magic does not need to be taught. Control needs to be taught, and the proper use, yes, but innate magic? Harry does not need anyone to teach him that.” The talking breaks off. “Again, I suggest you rethink his admittance to Hogwarts.”

Harry feels his heart drop out from under him. Not go to Hogwarts? His parents can’t possibly agree with the man. All they’ve ever promised Harry is that he’ll love Hogwarts.

“No,” his father snaps, sounding heated for the first time. “Harry will go to Hogwarts. I won’t let you take that from him too, Albus.” He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is glacial. “I think you had better leave. Before Harry wakes.”

More silence, then the sound of the door slamming shut. Harry can’t help it anymore and he tumbles down the stairs. He finds his mother and father standing together in front of the crackling fire, his father with his arms wrapped around his mother. They turn in unison at the sound of Harry.

“Oh, baby, what are you doing awake?” His mother asks, breaking away from his father.

“Mum? Da?” Harry asks, his voice trembling. “Is there something wrong with me?”

Lily falls onto her knees in front of Harry, pushing his hair away from his eyes. Her hand is cool and feels good against the heat of Harry’s skin. He can feel her nervousness, for the first time, a pale blue sliding across his senses at her touch. “Oh, Harry, everything is fine.”

Her voice is choked, and Harry watches as she turns her head over her shoulder, looking at his father. “Da?” Harry asks, feeling miniscule. Maybe he’s embracing his mother’s nerves, but he can’t help feeling like his whole world is crumbling.

James is still standing in front of the fire, his hands tucked into his pockets. “Everything is fine, Harry. Just like your mother said.” He doesn’t look at Harry. “Why don’t you go on up to bed?”

Looking back and forth between his mother and father, Harry feels his lip tremble as tears come unbidden. “Mum?” he pleads. She gives him a weak smile, pressing her hands against his face like a cooling balm.

More of her fear, a dark deep indigo, swells over Harry, leaving an acrid taste in his mouth. He starts to cry, her emotions too much for him to handle. “No, dear, don’t cry,” Lily soothes, sounding close to tears herself. “It’ll all be okay, you’ll see.”

“Stop touching him, Lil,” his father says, sounding hundreds of miles away. “You’re overwhelming him.”

Lily immediately pulls her hands away, and the swell of indigo drips away, like the last vestiges of a bloody nose. Harry’s own tears drip away, and he feels numb, like he doesn’t have any emotions of his own. She looks at him with something like pity. “You heard your father,” she sighs. “Go on up to bed.”

She rises to her feet, returning to stand next to Harry’s father. Turning reluctantly, Harry heads back to the stairs, looking over his shoulder only once. Neither of his parents are looking at him. With shaking hands Harry climbs the stairs, unable to lose the feeling that something has changed forever between them.

The Hogwarts Express blows steam across the station, the glittering maroon of the train briefly hidden. Harry’s parents stand over his shoulders, flanking him, but not touching him. Neither of them has touched him on purpose since the day the old man came and visited them. Now, surrounded by all of these people, Harry wonders how he’s going to manage not touching anyone, the way his parents want him to.

“We’ll see you soon, dear,” Lily says from behind him, her voice trembling. “Have a wonderful school year.”

Harry doesn’t look over his shoulder, doesn’t respond, just plunges into the crowd of people to make his way to the train. People press up against him on all sides, and it’s like the entire rainbow breaks out across his eyes. He isn’t touching anyone long enough for anything to stick, so he just catches fleeting images. Joy at returning to school, annoyance with family, despair to leave. It’s like flicking through pages of a book.

He is relieved to be free of it all, a headache already pounding at his temples, once he reaches the train. Harry finds a compartment that is empty and throws himself across one of the seats. He can only hope that no one else joins him.

Harry’s wish is denied. A tall boy, looking Harry’s age, slides the compartment door open. His dark hair falls in waves over his forehead, and his grey eyes meet Harry’s without hesitation. The beginning of a frown tugs on his mouth. “May I sit here?” the boy asks, voice stiff and cold.

Harry lifts a shoulder in a graceless shrug. “Go ahead,” he says.

The boy holds out his hand. “Tom Riddle,” he says. Eyeing his hand warily, Harry debates the merits of ignoring the outstretched handshake and risking losing the first potential friend he’s ever had.

“Harry Potter,” he says slowly, reaching out and grabbing Tom’s hand. It’s cool to the touch. Harry waits for the colors to swell over him, the different flickers of emotions, but nothing comes. Tom is... empty.

A sharp, hungry joy fills Harry at this. He supposes he should be concerned, because emptiness cannot be good, but all he can think of is how he can touch Tom and not have to worry about feeling everything he feels, about seeing his future and his past and his present.

“Pleasure,” Tom drawls, flexing his hand in Harry’s and clearly waiting for him to let go.

He does, unable to stop himself from flexing his own hand. Tom pulls a book out of his book and flips it open, ignoring Harry. He can’t stop himself from sneaking glances at Tom for the rest of the train ride.

As the train slows to a halt, and Harry stands to gather his things, he’s stopped by a harsh tug on his arm from Tom. Turning to face him, Harry raises an eyebrow. Inside, he’s giddy at the feeling of Tom’s warm hand on his arm, no threat of colors overwhelming him. “What is your problem?” Tom asks, his voice very low and very lethal.

“What?” Harry asks, his eyes still on Tom’s hand.

“You’ve been staring at me the whole way here. If you have a problem with me, I’d appreciate it if you let me know.” Tom speaks with a great air of authority, like he’s used to people having problems with him and he knows how to handle it.

Harry shakes his head, half a laugh falling from his lips. “I don’t have a problem with you,” he says, cheery. “The opposite actually.” He eyes Tom with consideration. His parents had told Harry not to tell anyone about his condition, but he gets the sense that Tom won’t buy any excuse Harry has to sell him.

“The opposite,” Tom repeats, his brow furrowing. A dark scowl crosses his face. “If you’re just joking or messing around with me, I’ll hurt you. I swear it,” he says, his voice dark and heavy.

Harry shakes his head. “I’m not joking,” he says. “I... can see colors. People’s emotions and bits and pieces of their thoughts. When they touch me.”

Tom blinks, looking down at where they are connected, his hand on Harry’s arm. He drops his hand like Harry’s on fire. “I– what did you see from me?” His voice holds a touch of nervousness.

“Nothing,” Harry sighs, the word coming easily. “Just peace and quiet.”

Tom raises an eyebrow. “Nothing? At all?”

Harry shakes his head, confirming Tom’s words. “You’re the only person I’ve ever met who’s quiet. It is... wonderful.”

From the look on Tom’s face, Harry worries for a long moment that he’s scared the other boy off. “The only person?” he asks again. “I’m special in that way.” His mouth curls around the word ‘special’ like he loves the taste of it. “The way you’re special in your ability.”

“Well, I’ve never really thought of it that way, but I suppose so,” Harry answers. “I just don’t want to go to Hogwarts and face everyone on my own.”

Tom’s face shutters closed. But Harry can see his eyes alight with some sort of hungry possession. “I’ll stay by your side, Harry,” he says, serious.

Feeling something inside of him crack at the words, Harry grins at Tom. His first friend.

Tom tilts his head, watching Harry Potter as he climbs out of their small rowboat. His hair is dark and tousled, falling across his forehead every time he looks down. He’s wearing a pair of round glasses, which slide down his nose often enough that he thinks Harry pushing them up is just a reflexive act at the moment.

Harry’s skin is tan, his eyes a shocking emerald green and Tom wishes, with a half-formed thought, that he could pluck them out and keep them for himself. People have already started to stare at Harry, some girls whispering behind a cupped hand as Harry passes them. Tom doesn’t yet have the authority to tell these people what to do, but he will soon. And once he does, no one will look at Harry like that again.

With hungry eyes, like they’ve heard the story about his strange ability and they want to test it for themselves.

Even though Tom’s only known Harry for a few hours, a dark, possessive feeling threatens to rush over his head at the thought of someone else touching Harry. He feels touched, selected in a way, at Harry’s trust in telling Tom about his ability.

Tom knew he was special. Even beyond his ability to speak with snakes, he knew there had to be something different about him. Now, after his talk with Harry, all of that has been confirmed. Harry will be _his_ like he is willing to stay with Harry.

Another trinket to keep to himself, even though his wardrobe at the orphanage is empty now.

As he sees the way the other students watch Harry, Tom knows he will need to acquire power fast if he wants to keep Harry to himself.

Yes, he thinks, with a savage kind of glee, Harry will make a fine friend.

“ _...better be_ SLYTHERIN!”

The Sorting Hat shouts from on top of Harry’s head. With dismay, he wonders if his parents will hate him even more now that he’s a Slytherin before realizing, belatedly, that he’s not supposed to care if they hate him or not.

He hops off the stool and makes his way to the Slytherin table, where the students are looking less than enthusiastic at his sorting. But Tom follows not long behind him, taking his seat beside Harry. His leg presses into Harry’s, the burning heat drawing his attention.

Tom meets Harry’s gaze steadily, his silver eyes impassive. A flush rises in Harry’s cheeks and looks away, his eyes catching at the man sitting at the head of the professors’ table. The man meets his eyes, unsmiling.

“Great,” Harry says, stabbing his fork into his dinner. He recognizes the man as the one who visited his parents years ago and told them that Harry should not go to Hogwarts.

“You don’t like him?” Tom’s voice is slow and steady. When Harry looks over, he is methodically cutting his chicken into bite size pieces.

Harry hates Dumbledore, who he knows now is the headmaster. If Dumbledore hadn’t come that day, he would still have his parents. “I hate him,” he admits to Tom in a rush. The rage chokes up in his throat. “He took my family from me.”

With a slow smile, Tom puts down his fork and knife. He fixes his silvery gaze on Harry. “He did the same to me. Just one more thing we have in common.”

A shiver runs down Harry’s spine.

Tom and Harry become fast friends. Beyond Tom’s ability to touch Harry, they truly are very similar. Tom is dark and quiet, consuming books at a rate far beyond Harry’s imagination. He can also be quite terrifying at times, although this quality in particular has never been directed at Harry.

In fact, Tom treats Harry as if he is something treasured. He is tactile with Harry, glancing a hand down his back, knocking his knuckles across Harry’s chin, sitting against him pressed together from shoulder to ankle. Harry doesn’t mind, welcoming the warmth and peace that Tom’s presence brings. It’s markedly different from how Tom treats others though.

With everyone else, he is coolly detached, like they are below his interest. He has gathered a rather loyal group of friends, much to Harry’s surprise, including most of the other first and second year Slytherins.

“Why don’t you treat any of them like they’re your friends?” Harry asks Tom one fall afternoon, the two of them out by the lake. He’s stretched on his back, his head propped against Tom’s outstretched legs. The air is crisp and cool, and Harry’s got a scarf wrapped around his neck and gloves on his hands as the wind whips through his hair.

Tom looks down at him, his face placid and impassive. “Because they’re not.” He rests his hand on Harry’s cheek, his fingers warm, even despite the cold. “Not the way you are.”

Harry flushes at that. He can’t help the pull of his mouth as he smiles. Tom’s full attention is like basking under the sun, because it is so rare to receive. He thinks that maybe he has talked to Tom more than anyone, but doesn’t mind that fact.

“Then why do you spend time with them?” He knows he sounds jealous, but can’t help himself.

Tom laughs, his hand on Harry’s cheek flexing, cupping his face, his thumb under Harry’s chin. “Because they give me power.”

Harry’s eyes drift closed. “Power?” he asks, the question sliding from him without his permission.

Tom’s thumb curls over Harry’s Adam’s apple, in a soft stroking manner. His nail digs into Harry’s skin slightly, but he doesn’t mind, not really. The harshness is as much a part of Tom as everything else. “Yes,” he answers, his voice slow. “Power.” He doesn’t elaborate further and Harry doesn’t ask him to, content to stay in silence.

“Harry, might I ask you a question?” Tom says, sliding into his seat across from Harry at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall. He crosses his hands on the table.

Harry looks up from his Potions essay, pushing his hair out of his eyes with a scowl. Tom looks as composed as ever, his hair neatly parted and his tie knotted all the way up to his neck. “Of course. What’s wrong?”

Tom gives a hint of a smile, inclining his head. “Nothing is wrong,” he says, flexing his hands. “What are your winter break plans?”

Harry frowns at the reminder of break. He’s been awaiting a letter from his parents, but nothing is forthcoming. “I suppose I might just be staying in the castle,” he says, rolling his quill on the table. “My parents aren’t exactly... talking to me.”

“That’s a shame,” Tom says, his voice low.

Harry looks at him with curiosity. “What are you doing?”

Tom’s face remains impassive. “My options are staying in the castle or going back to the orphanage. So I think I will be staying here.” His voice betrays no emotion, but Harry can hear a note of bitterness in his voice. He makes up his mind.

“I’ll stay with you,” he says quickly. “If you want.”

A pleased look flits across Tom’s face. Warmth blooms in Harry’s stomach at the idea of making Tom happy. After the acceptance he has given Harry, he would do anything to return that acceptance.

Almost everyone in Hogwarts goes home over winter break, including every boy in their year. The first day, Harry sleeps for 14 hours straight, sleeping off the migraine that Hogwarts gives him. Being around other people all the time, especially walking in the hallway, has given him constant headaches that rarely subside.

When Harry wakes, he’s disoriented. The room is dark and it’s impossible to tell what time it is. Without his glasses, the world is a foggy blur. He reaches to the bedside table, accidentally knocking a book off before his fingers hit the cool metal of his glasses. Shoving them on his face, Harry sits up. Tom, positioned at the foot of his bed, looks up from the book in his lap. “I would have thought you were dead if I didn’t know better,” Tom says, snapping the book closed.

Harry blinks at him, his head still throbbing. “What time is it?” He collapses back on the pillows, throwing an arm across his eyes.

“About 2 in the afternoon,” Tom says, his voice even as usual. “But you’ve been asleep since about 8 last night.”

Harry frowns. The headache is still pounding at his head, even as he can tell that most of the other students have left. “You’re still tired, aren’t you.” Tom’s voice is calm, like he’s stating a fact rather than asking a question.

The bed moves under Tom’s weight as he crawls forward, moving up the bed. He stretches out next to Harry, his side pressing up against Harry’s back. With one hand, he pats Harry’s hip. “Go back to sleep,” he says, his voice toneless as is usual. “I’ll stay with you.”

Harry’s eyes slide closed again, the presence and pressure of Tom at his back a welcome one.

“Tom,” Harry says, sitting beside him in front of the lake. It’s almost time for summer break, the sun is shining down on them, the threat of final exams hovering over them.

Tom looks up from his book, looking cool and composed despite the heat. “Yes, Harry?” He shuts the book delicately, giving Harry his full attention. He shifts, feeling a flush unrelated to the heat rise in his face.

“You’re supposed to go back to the orphanage this summer, right?” A dark look crosses Tom’s face, anger written across the planes of his mouth and eyes and cheeks. Harry hurries to explain himself. “That is, I mean, would you perhaps be interested in coming home with me this summer? I’ve written to my parents and they said it’s okay, if you want to.”

The anger drips away from Tom like it was never there to begin with. “To your home?” He asks, setting the book down beside him.

“Well, yes,” Harry says, picking at the grass beside him. “I know you don’t like the orphanage, and I don’t particularly like my home either and I thought it might be nice. Of course–”

His rambling is cut off when Tom throws his arms around Harry. He freezes for a moment, unused to the contact, Tom doesn’t let go. He smells good, like the smell of old books, the sun, the hint of leather. With one arm, Harry returns the hug, just breathing Tom in. It’s been so long since the last time someone hugged Harry, he can’t even remember it.

After a long moment, Tom lets him go. There are two pink splotches high on his cheeks, but he smiles fiercely at Harry. It’s an expression that Tom reserves just for him, and Harry feels his face heat again.

“I would love to come home with you for the summer. Thank you for extending the offer,” Tom answers, formal even as he grins at Harry. There’s a fire blazing in his silver eyes that sets Harry alight. He lays back in the grass, discarding his study materials, feeling happier now than he has in a long time.

Harry steps off the Hogwarts Express, a leaden feeling in his stomach. Tom is behind him, but Harry can’t help but feel apprehensive at the idea of introducing his one and only friend to his parents. His contact with his mother and father has been minimal, especially after he decided to stay at Hogwarts for the winter holidays.

He just barely manages not to start when Tom’s hand comes up, fingers wrapping around his arm. “Don’t worry,” Tom says, his voice even and calm, his cool fingers stroking slightly against Harry’s skin.

“I’m not worried,” he answers reflexively, his eyes finally meeting those of his parents. Lily and James are standing next to one another, anxious looks on their faces. The feeling in Harry’s stomach deepens into a pit.

Tom’s hand tightens slightly around Harry’s arm. “Don’t lie to me,” he says. There’s just the barest hint of an edge in Tom’s voice, enough to make Harry flinch slightly.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, watching as his parents move towards them. “I just... don’t know how they’re going to react.”

Tom makes a pleased noise low in his throat. His hand loosens around Harry’s arm, his fingers brushing over the skin softly. “If they love you, they will understand.”

James and Lily are in front of Harry before he can answer. Tom’s hand falls away from his arm and Harry misses the comfort of it almost immediately.

“Harry, dear,” his mother says, opening her arms. Confused but not willing to have her reconsider, he steps into her embrace. Lily hugs him, for the first time that he can remember in years. Colors flicker across his eyes, a misty pink that tastes like roses and a dark indigo sadness. His mother pulls away, stroking the hair at the nape of his neck. “We missed you terribly.”

He smiles at her, unsure how to deal with this affection. “I missed you too,” he says finally. Tom shifts behind him, his bag rustling and Harry turns without thinking. “Oh,” he says. “This is my friend, Tom. Tom Riddle.”

“Pleasure to meet you both,” Tom says, a polite smile on his face. He shakes James’ hand, and then Lily’s, before returning to his spot practically hovering over Harry’s shoulder.

James nods, looking at Harry with an indecipherable look. “It’s good to see you,” he says, voice stilted.

Harry shifts. The tension between them is making him uncomfortable. He stills when he feels Tom’s hand brush against his hip, the touch both fleeting and grounding at the same time. His father catches the movement, eyes following Tom’s hand as it drops back down by his side. James looks back up at Harry, that unreadable expression still on his face. “We had best get going,” he says finally. “Sirius is going to come for dinner tonight.”

It’s apparent, almost immediately, that Harry’s parents are waiting to drop a bombshell of information on him. He’s not sure what they’re planning on telling him, only that they avoid direct eye contact with him and seem extremely uncomfortable around him.

Harry’s eyes narrow as he watches his parents rushing to set the dining table, murmuring to each other in low voices that he has to strain to make out.

“They seem nice,” Tom says, from his spot behind Harry on the sofa. Harry’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, Tom’s legs a bracket on either side of him. Tom sounds bored, and when Harry checks over his shoulder, he’s not surprised to see the other boy with a book open in his hand.

He turns back to watch his parents, frowning. “They do,” he answers, crossing his arms and leaning back further into the support of the sofa. In fact, they’ve been nicer the past few hours than he remembers for the past few years of his life before he went to Hogwarts. If it weren’t for the undercurrent of tension that lingers under their actions, and his still-fresh memories of their previous behavior, Harry would be thrilled.

One of Tom’s arms falls forward, hanging carelessly over one of Harry’s shoulders. His father looks up at that moment, catching sight of Harry. His eyebrows furrow but his attention is pulled away by Lily tugging at his sleeve.

Harry wonders, belatedly, if Tom’s presence is putting his parents on edge. He turns slightly to look at Tom again. The other boy is still engrossed in his book, but he looks up to meet Harry’s eyes. Tom tilts his head slightly in an unasked question. Harry just sags against the couch. He doesn’t know why they would agree for Tom to come for the summer if they were going to act strangely around him. He resolves to ask them about in private later.

Sirius arrives a few hours later, his long black hair pushed back with a bandana, a battered dark green jacket hanging loosely off his shoulders. He looks thinner since the last time Harry saw him, shortly before he started at Hogwarts, his cheekbones and jawline more prominent.

Still, his smile is as wide and friendly as Harry remembers. He holds his arms out to Harry, always free with his physical affection, and when Harry hugs him, Sirius smells and feels the same as before. Lean and hard, the hint of metal and smoke. When Harry touches him, a steely grey soaks into his senses, flickering with darkness and a wrenching agony. He has to grit his jaw to bite back his reflexive flinch before Sirius or his parents can see it and pull away again.

Sirius’s eyes flicker over Harry’s head. He tugs on the hair at the nape of Harry’s neck gently. “Who’s your friend?” he asks.

Harry turns out of his godfather’s embrace, putting himself back into Tom’s reach. “Tom Riddle,” the other boy says, holding out his hand. “Harry and I are in the same House at Hogwarts.”

Sirius raises an eyebrow, but steps forward and shakes Tom’s hand. “Slytherin, eh?” He turns a clever grin towards Harry. “Guess I couldn’t make a Gryffindor of you after all.”

From beside Harry, Tom stiffens. His shoulder brushes against Harry’s. “Slytherin is a perfectly respectable House,” he says, a chill entering his voice. Harry knows perfectly well Tom’s intolerance for Gryffindors and the stunts they play at school and wonders how he didn’t see this coming.

Sirius’s eyes dart between Harry and Tom, standing shoulder to shoulder, before glancing back to where Harry’s sure his parents are waiting. “Of course it is,” he answers. “My brother was in Slytherin, after all. As was the rest of my family.”

A long silence stretches out after Sirius stops speaking. Tom clearly is not interested in breaking first, so Harry grabs his wrist. “Mum is making dinner,” he says, trying to inject some cheer into his voice. “You always love her cooking.”

With that, the tension shatters between them like glass. “Yes,” Sirius agrees with one last look at where Harry and Tom are attached. “Lily does know how to make the best dishes.”

Harry pulls Tom back before they go into the other room with the adults. “What are you doing?” he hisses, tightening his grip on the other boy’s wrist.

Tom looks down at where Harry is holding him, a strange look on his face. “There is nothing wrong with you,” he says, a vicious edge to his voice. He scowls darkly. His other hand comes up to cover where Harry has a hold of him. “They shouldn’t act like there is.”

“That’s just how Sirius is,” Harry says, exasperated with his friend. “He doesn’t really care if I’m in Slytherin or Gryffindor. Just likes to joke about it.” Tom is still scowling, so Harry rubs his thumb across the jut of his wrist bone. “It’s okay. Really. Just relax.”

That startles a rare laugh out of Tom. He’s always so composed and serious, Harry can’t help but smile at the sound of his laughter. “You’re telling me to relax?” He steps closer to Harry, so their shoulders are brushing.

Harry rolls his eyes. “I’ve been relaxed,” he answers. “You’re putting everyone on edge.”

Because he’s strange, Tom seems to take a sort of twisted pleasure out of that. “Shall we go to dinner, then?” he asks, sounding cheery. He disentagles himself from Harry’s hold, striding on towards where Sirius and Harry’s parents disappeared minutes ago. Harry watches him go, smiling. He follows a few seconds later, a warm feeling in his stomach.

The next few weeks pass in a happy haze. He and Tom spend most of their time outside. Harry takes great measures to show Tom all of his favorite childhood spots—places where he would spend hours climbing trees, where he broke his arm one summer trying to climb up a rock wall, his favorite wading spot in the lake.

Tom takes it all in with his usual impassivity, but he always gets this little secretive smile whenever Harry tells him that he’s never brought anyone else here or told anyone else these stories. It’s true, because Harry has no reason to lie, but also because he also likes the look on Tom’s face when he realizes he’s seen a part of Harry that no one else has.

There is only one strange part, which is the few days after they first arrive where Tom is particularly reserved with his physical touches to Harry. He’d become so used to Tom being tactile with him–brushing a hand down his back when he wants Harry’s attention, slumping against Harry’s side when he’s reading at night, wrapping a hand around Harry’s wrist to pull him along.

Nothing. If it weren’t for the way Tom still followed Harry with his intense silver eyes, he would have thought the other boy was mad at him. Still, after a few days of feeling Tom’s absence acutely, even though his friend was physically next to him, one morning Harry wakes up and it’s like nothing changed. Tom wakes him by shaking his shoulder, pulls him down to breakfast with a tight grip on his wrist, and stays steps behind him.

Harry pretends not to notice the way his parents watch them, wonders if they’re curious about Harry’s reactions to Tom hanging off him. He can’t really bring himself to care. He feels like maybe he gets some kind of pleasure out of it. Look, he wants to say. I feel fine when Tom touches me. Nothing is wrong. Not like you.

But then again, it’s not their fault that something about their magic triggers these reactions. So he keeps his mouth shut, tries to enjoy the long summer days with Tom under the sun.

Three weeks of their summer have passed when Harry hears a conversation he’s clearly not supposed to. He’d gone downstairs to get water from the kitchen to bring up to his room. Earlier that day, Harry had taken Tom swimming in the lake, but the excursion had left both of them dehydrated and worn out from the sun.

Tom, clearly unused to such physical activity, had just grumbled and waved a hand in Harry’s general direction from his place surrounded by pillows on his bed. “You go,” he had sighed around a yawn. “Too tired.”

Harry had flicked his forehead gently, but went downstairs all the same. He knew that Tom probably would have preferred to stay inside all day, pouring over Lily’s potions books and James’s books on defense magic, but he’d ventured with Harry outside anyway. It was only fair that Harry go downstairs to get him some water. Maybe tomorrow, they would stay inside and do something Tom wanted. He hopes Tom will like the suggestion.

As he’s creeping back up the stairs, doing his best not to make too much noise, the swell of conversation rises towards him. He catches his father’s voice. “...don’t think it’s normal.”

“They’re just kids,” his mother sighs. She sounds tired.

His father scoffs. Harry freezes on the stairs. He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but there’s something about the tone of his father’s voice that freezes him in place. “So that’s how you acted around Snivellus?”

Harry doesn't know what his father is referring to, but judging by the long silence from his mother, it’s nothing good.

“How dare you bring him up in this context,” she answers finally. “You should be happy that Harry finally as someone he’s comfortable around.”

James scoffs again. “That kid isn’t normal. Do you see the way he watches Harry? Like he’s some kind of...some kind of object.”

“James,” his mother stresses. “If Harry isn’t uncomfortable, it isn’t our place to make him so. It’s bad enough that...” Her voice drifts out of his earshot as one of them closes a door and dampens the sound of their conversation.

There’s an uncomfortable twisting feeling in his stomach as he stands, still frozen, on the stairs. He had known that his parents had been watching Tom, but he hadn’t realized they found Tom so strange. And what had his mother been about to say? Was it about the bombshell he’s been waiting for them to drop on him?

In a daze, he heads back to his room, shutting the door softly behind him. Tom stirs under the blankets. “Everything okay?” he mumbles, catching sight of Harry’s face. He wonders what expression lives there.

“Fine,” he answers, setting the water down on the table by Tom’s bed and climbing into his own, pulling the sheets up and staring blankly at the wall in front of him.

There’s rustling from behind him, followed by the soft sounds of Tom’s feet on the carpet. He starts anyways when there’s pressure on the bed behind him. Tom presses his forehead against the back of Harry’s neck. His skin is cool and Harry makes a noise, although he doesn’t know if it’s one of contentment or complaint.

Tom doesn’t touch him anywhere other than the back of his neck, laying on the bed just behind Harry. “Harry,” he cajoles.

In response, Harry turns his face further into the pillows, inadvertently breaking the contact between him and Tom. The other boy sighs, his breath gently hitting the back of Harry’s neck. He shifts, the bed dipping again as he adjusts, moving closer. Tom throws an arm over Harry, finding purchase on his other side and pulling at Harry until he’s able to maneuver him onto his back.

Tom stays on his side, looking down at Harry. He blinks, looking anywhere other than Tom’s eyes. He knows the second he meets the other boy’s gaze, his own resolve will crumble.

“Look at me,” Tom orders, his voice stern. He doesn’t like it when Harry doesn’t listen to him, even more so than when others don’t. Out of his peripheral vision, he can see Tom’s hand move towards him. Sure enough, Tom’s fingers wrap around Harry’s chin in a tight grip, moving Harry’s head so he has no choice but to stare at Tom’s face.

Tom is frowning, a wave of hair falling across his forehead in a contrast from his usual neatness. The top of his cheeks are flushed a light pink, the result of hours under the sun. Harry thinks that Tom might be the prettiest person he’s ever seen. He doesn’t say that out loud, thankfully, even though he can feel his ears heat.

“You were normal before you went downstairs,” Tom says, his voice even and reasonable. Harry’s never seen Tom get mad before, he thinks absently. He wonders how he’d look angry. “Was it something your parents did?”

Harry blinks up at Tom. Everything is a little fuzzy without his glasses, and the shape of Tom hovers out of focus. “No,” he lies.

Tom’s grip on Harry’s chin tightens. More of a pinch than a hold. He winces slightly, but Tom doesn’t let go. “You’re lying,” Tom answers. He can’t be sure, but Harry’s fairly certain that Tom’s eyes are sharp and steely, the way they usually get when the other boy isn’t satisfied with an answer.

“Don’t wanna talk abou’ it,” Harry mumbles, feeling miserable.

How is he supposed to tell his friend, his only friend, that his father thinks Tom’s a freak. That his mother is planning something for Harry, something he won’t like.

He hopes Tom will just let it go.

Tom holds onto his chin for a moment longer, nails digging into the skin, before he relents. He lets go of Harry, rubbing over the skin in soothing motions, a wordless apology for his roughness.

This is why Harry trusts Tom, he thinks, falling into the silence and realizing he’s more tired than he thought. Tom might be sharp and abrasive, cruel even, but he always makes up for it. Tom shifts after a few minutes, his hand dropping from Harry’s chin, probably to head back to his own bed.

Harry panics, reaching out and grabbing Tom’s wrist. Anxiety is still gnawing at his stomach and the thought of being alone, even with Tom so close by, makes it worse. “Stay? Just tonight.”

Tom lets out a noise that sounds like a small laugh and lets Harry haul him back by the grip on his wrist. “Okay,” he agrees easily. “There’s not much room.”

There really isn’t enough room for both of them in the bed, but Harry doesn’t care. He moves over, as far to the edge as he can, still on his back. Tom lays down next to him, until they’re pressed together shoulder to shoulder.

With his free hand, Harry untangles the blankets from where they’ve fallen around his legs and pulls them up over both of them. He’s still got a grip around Tom’s wrist. The other boy is silent, just the sound of his steady breathing filling the silence.

Harry wonders what he’s thinking.

He falls asleep like that, fingers in a loop around Tom’s wrist, shoulders touching.

The rest of the summer passes in a similar fashion, although both James and Tom seem to have a mutual dislike of each other. Harry pretends not to notice, and before long, it’s time to go back to Hogwarts.

Even though he enjoys Hogwarts, Harry can’t help but be reluctant to return. He’s almost forgotten what it’s like to have the constant headache that being around magic gives him. Over the summer, with just Tom and the expansive outdoors of his parent’s home, Harry was able to relax and forget, if just for a little while, that he was different.

But standing in front of the Hogwarts Express, the platform crowded with students, he feels dizzy under the onslaught.

Harry sways slightly, and Tom steadies him with a hold on his arm, just above his elbow.

“Goodbye, my love,” his mother says, wrapping her arms around Harry in a tight hug. He blinks, a dark inky blue sinking into his senses. Grief and fear and loss all twisted into one choking sensation. He doesn’t hug her back, too busy trying to blink away the indigo that’s covered his vision.

He doesn’t want to ask about what’s made her so upset. Still, there’s a sinking sensation in his stomach. Clearly whatever his parents have decided on isn’t anything good. When Lily lets him go, he just blinks at her. Tom’s hold around his arm tightens, like he’s sensing Harry’s turmoil. His dad just looks at him, a complicated expression crossing his face.

“Have a good year at school, Harry,” James says, wrapping one arm around Lily. He uses the hold around his wife to turn her around and the two of them exit the station, long before the train is scheduled to leave.

Something inside Harry cracks at the sight of their turned backs, just before he loses sight of them among the rest of the students and their parents. He thought he had become immune to their emotional unavailability, but this drives it home more than anything.

“Come on,” Tom says after a moment, tugging gently on Harry’s arm. “Let’s go.”

He maneuvers Harry towards the train, never letting go of his arm. “Here,” Tom says, pushing Harry to a seat in an empty compartment. “Stay here. I have to go see the others.”

By others, he means the rest of the Slytherins in their year. Maybe a few in the year above them too, Harry’s not sure. Those are Tom’s other friends, the ones who have money and power and families who care about them. Harry knows Tom has been itching to see them all summer, to remind them who they should want to be friends with

Still, it hurts to see Tom walk away too. “Won’t you stay a little longer?”

Tom makes a pleased noise. “Don’t worry,” he says. “This won’t take long.” He ruffles Harry’s hair with one hand. “Miss me while I’m gone,” he says with a teasing smile, and then turns to leave.

Harry slumps against the train seat, the silence and emptiness of the cabin getting under his skin. He’s not used to being alone, having grown accustomed to Tom’s steady presence by his side over the summer. He looks around the compartment, empty and cold, and wilts slightly.

A loud noise from down the train draws his attention, just moments later. Harry sits up straight, but doesn’t have time to get a look at what’s happening because at that moment, the door to his compartment slides open again and two people step inside.

Harry recognizes them vaguely as Gryffindors, in his year, but he’s never spoken to them before.

The taller of them, a red-head, turns and starts when he sees Harry sitting in the compartment. “Oh,” he says loudly. “We didn’t know anyone was in here.”

Harry blinks up at them. “That’s okay,” he says slowly. “What was that noise?”

The red-head exchanges a nervous look with his friend, a slightly pudgy, red-cheeked boy with dark hair. “Ah,” he says. “Neville may have let his toad loose. Into Pansy Parkinson’s lap.”

Harry can’t help his snort of laughter. He’s never liked Pansy, a girl in his year who’s never missed the opportunity to make a snide comment about Harry’s mother and her birth status. “No wonder you’re hiding,” he says, his apprehension slipping away like it was never there in the first place. “She can be quite mean when she’s mad.”

The pudgy boy, Neville, stammers. “It was an accident, I swear,” he says. His eyes fall on the green at Harry’s collar on his robes. They dart back up to meet Harry’s. “You’re not...she’s not going to come in here, is she?”

The red-head notices the robes a moment after Neville. He stiffens slightly, but it’s enough to put a damper on Harry’s good humor. “No,” he answers. “Pansy and I aren’t exactly what you would call friends.”

The two boys look slightly ashamed, but the tension falls away slightly. “I’m Ron,” the red-head says, sticking his hand out for Harry to shake. “This is Neville.” The other boy waves.

Harry eyes Ron’s hand with apprehension, but eventually decides that the chance to make a new friend outweighs his fear of whatever he might see. Harry takes Ron’s hand, squeezing it in a shake briefly.

The world around him blurs out slightly as his vision is drenched in a bright sunny yellow, fading into a vibrant orange. He smells freshly baked bread and sees faceless people running through a grassy field before he comes back to himself. He lets go of Ron’s hand and smiles brightly at the other boy. What he’s seen puts him at ease. Some part of him feels like he can trust Ron.

“Nice to meet you,” he says. “I’m Harry.”

The Gryffindors sit across from Harry. They’re deep in a conversation about Quidditch–Harry’s learned that Ron is a fervent and loyal Chudley Cannons supporter, while Neville doesn’t follow Quidditch all that closely–by the time Tom returns.

The door to the compartment slides open with a soft noise, drawing the three occupants of the compartment’s attention. Tom stands in the doorway, his face void of any emotion. “Tom!” Harry exclaims happily, straightening in his seat. The other boy was gone for a while, a few hours at least, and long enough to have missed the trolley’s first round.

His eyes slide towards Harry, his face still empty. “Harry,” he says, voice pleasant despite the absence of emotion on his face.

Harry turns towards the two Gryffindors who are staring at Tom with a mixture of apprehension and confusion. “Ron, Neville, this is Tom,” he introduces them.

“You two should return to your own compartment,” Tom says, instead of saying anything polite. His face is still carefully controlled, but from where Harry is sitting, he can see Tom’s hand clenched around the door handle of the compartment.

The atmosphere in the room is clearly strained, but Ron and Neville get up anyway. They say goodbye to Harry and he promises to catch up with them once they’re at Hogwarts. Tom slides the door shut behind them, locking it with a flick of his wrist.

He stays silent.

Harry scooches over on the bench to sit by the window, a little irritated at Tom for scaring away his new friends. He pulls a book out of his bag and plans to read for the rest of the trip, especially now that Tom gives no indication of being any source of entertainment.

Standing in the middle of the compartment, hands hanging loosely by his sides, Tom stares at Harry for a long moment. There’s something burning in Tom’s eyes that makes Harry’s stomach twist uncomfortably. After a few long moments, Tom seems to come to a decision.

He sits next to Harry, pressing up against him, pushing his shoulder against Harry’s. Disgruntled, he moves to shift over, but Tom closes in on him, practically chasing him until Harry’s squeezed between the window and Tom.

Harry pointedly avoids Tom’s eyes.

“Look at me,” Tom commands. It’s a sharp, impatient sound, betraying how bothered Tom usually is. Normally, he’s able to control himself, keep his voice even and steady.

Harry glances up. This isn’t worth making his friend any angrier. Tom is staring at him, his eyebrows furrowed, a frown on his face. “Those were Gryffindors,” Tom says, like Harry is stupid.

“I know,” he answers, rolling his eyes. “So?”

Tom makes a choked noise. Harry watches as his fingers twitch in his lap. He wonders what’s going through Tom’s head.

“ _So?_ ” Tom asks, his voice frigid. “You don’t see the problem?”

Harry stares at Tom, not dropping eye-contact. He thinks this is part of Tom’s power: he makes the other person so uncomfortable they have to look away first. Well, Harry won’t let him have the satisfaction. If Tom has a problem, Harry’s going to make him spell it out, not concede.

His eyes narrowing slightly, Tom doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He closes his eyes for a beat, before opening them again. Harry watches with fascination as Tom swallows down whatever emotion he was feeling, his face twisting and smoothing out into a pleasant, if not slightly blank, expression. “Very well,” he says, hardly a sign of strain in his voice. “If that’s what you think.”

Harry settles back against the window, slightly more comfortable with a victory against Tom under his belt. It’s not often that Harry is able to win an argument against his friend. He smiles, satisfied, at Tom. “Thank you for understanding,” he says, just a little smug.

Tom smiles back at him, and Harry can only just tell that it’s fake. His friend is becoming better at hiding his emotions. Harry envies that.

It’s several weeks later that Harry gets in another argument with Tom.

This time, Harry’s significantly more irritated with Tom. It starts innocently enough, the two of them sitting next to each other at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall. Marcus Flint, an older student, is talking loudly from down the table about Quidditch try-outs.

Tom, who has been engrossed in a side conversation with silver-haired Draco Malfoy looks up at the sound of Flint’s voice.

“...need a new Seeker,” Flint is saying when Harry tunes in, drawn by Tom’s attention. “Higgs got one too many detentions and McGonnagal threatened to have Slughorn’s head if he let him try out again.”

Harry straightens, intrigued. “When are they?” he asks, raising his voice a little, so Flint will hear him.

“What’s your name?” Flint leans over the table, looking towards Harry with a disgruntled look on his face. Harry wants to roll his eyes, but refrains. He doesn’t want to start a fight, especially not with Flint who is a particularly burly fifth year.

Harry keeps a pleasant expression on his face, even though he wants to scowl. He knows that Flint knows who he is. The older boy is clearly playing a game of power with Harry, showing him who’s in control. Still, he doesn’t actually want to get on Flint’s bad side, so he just bears it and grins. “Harry Potter,” he answers.

From beside him, Tom stiffens slightly, cluing Harry in on the fact that he’s listening to their conversation.

Flint gives Harry a long once-over. “Tonight,” he answers. “Six o’clock.”

A spark of joy flares up in Harry. He loves flying. When Tom had visited over the summer, Harry’d tried to get him to play Quidditch, but the other boy steadfastly refused. And, during flying lessons at Hogwarts last year, Tom had found some excuse to miss out on every one. Harry thought, secretly of course, that Tom was just scared of heights, but of course he’d never admit it.

Still, the idea of getting to fly tonight brightens Harry’s mood. He’s so caught up in his own thoughts, planning how he’ll impress Flint and secure a spot on the team, that he doesn’t notice Tom’s rapidly darkening mood.

It isn’t until they’re headed to class and Tom wraps a hand tightly around Harry’s upper arm, jerking him down a side corridor, away from the noise of the main hallway, that Harry comes back to his senses. Tom has a dark look on his face, and his fingers are wrapped so tightly around his arm that Harry wouldn’t be surprised if he bruises.

If Harry could taste Tom’s emotions, he’d picture them as a deep burgundy, full of anger and frustration. When he turns to face Harry, his mouth twitches with rage, his eyes a stormy grey. He still has a death grip around Harry’s arm.

“Leggo,” Harry winces, trying to squirm out of Tom’s hold. “What’s gotten into you lately?”

Sure, they haven’t been fighting necessarily, but Tom’s been in a bad mood since they got back to Hogwarts. That, and whenever he can, he’s attached to Harry by the hip. It’s honestly weirding him out a little. He doesn’t know how to manage this moody, clingy Tom.

Tom forgets to control his face, and his mouth drops open. “Gotten into me?” he asks. He snaps his mouth closed, a dark scowl twisting his features. “I should ask you the same thing.”

His hold around Harry’s arm only tightens, and he shakes Harry a little. He tries to twist out of Tom’s grip again, frowning when all he succeeds is deepening Tom’s scowl. “You’ve been acting strange ever since we got to Hogwarts.”

Tom’s hand flexes around Harry’s arm, before he drops it to hang loose by his side. “You’re seriously going to try out for the Quidditch team.” The question comes out flat.

Harry, distracted by trying to rub life back into his arm, glances up with confusion. “Yes?” His voice is high pitched. He can’t help the confusion, considering it’s a strange question. Tom makes it sound like trying out for Quidditch is the worst thing Harry could do.

“Are your _friends_ trying out as well?” Tom asks, his voice twisting into a sneer on ‘friends’. Harry drops his hand away from his arm, staring at Tom in open confusion now. The other boy frowns at him, the space between his eyebrows pinched.

Harry racks his mind for what Tom might be referring to. “You mean...” he huffs out a laugh, his bad mood slipping away easily, “you mean Ron and Neville?”

The look on Tom’s face turns vicious as he frowns. His eyes sharpen and his fingers twitch at his sides. Harry’s never seen his friend have such a visceral reaction before. He reaches out, ignoring the way Tom flinches back, and rubs a thumb in the space between his eyebrows, trying to smooth away the tension.

With his touch, the anger seems to drain away from Tom and he closes his eyes. “You’re not...” he pauses, stumbling over his words in a way that’s unusual for him. “You’re not allowed to be friends with Gryffindors,” he says. “Or try out for Quidditch.”

Harry laughs. He can’t help himself. “You can’t tell me what I’m allowed to do,” he tells Tom, not unkindly.

Tom’s eyes flutter open, watching Harry with a strange, hungry fire. “That’s not what I mean,” he says. Behind them, everything is quiet, signalling class has started. Tom doesn’t seem upset that they’re going to be late.

“What did you mean then?”

“If you do those things,” Tom says, “you’re going to forget about me.” His eyes sharpen, sliding down Harry’s face like he’s memorizing him. “You’re not allowed to do that.”

Something in Harry softens at those words. Even if Tom is acting irrational, he has a reason. He always has a reason, Harry thinks, with a touch of relief. “I won’t ever forget you,” Harry says earnestly. “You’re my best friend.”

“Best friend,” Tom says, mouthing over the words like he’s never heard them before. He turns a brilliant smile on Harry, one that’s saved just for him.

The tension between them has shattered like it was never there to begin with. Tom takes a step forward, into Harry’s space, and reaches for his arm again. He takes Harry’s forearm with careful, deft fingers and slides his sleeve up as high as it will go, until he can get a good look at where he was holding before.

Harry’s arm is already red where Tom’s hand grabbed him, and his suspicion that it was going to bruise is correct.

“Oh, Harry,” Tom says, “I’m sorry.” He runs gentle fingers over the skin, a drastic contrast against his rough handling of Harry before. He flattens his hand over the redness, a soft imitation. Tom presses his fingertips to the spots where he’d grabbed Harry, matching them and pressing down slightly.

Harry hisses in pain, the skin already sensitive. “It’s a match,” Tom says, something almost like wonder in his voice.

“What?” he stutters.

Tom holds his hand there for a moment longer, before brushing his fingers over the skin one last time and pulling down the sleeve. “Nothing,” he answers. He looks up at Harry, his impassive mask pieced back together. “We had better get to class before we both get detention.”

Harry thinks he can still see that hungry fire still burning in his eyes.

At the end of the year, Harry is standing on the train platform by himself. Tom hovers over his shoulder, but Harry can see the way his eyes dart to the Malfoys every few seconds. “Just go,” he sighs. “I’m fine.”

Tom wraps a hand around his elbow. “Didn’t they write you?”

Harry may have lied to Tom about that. The truth is, he hasn’t heard from his parents since they sent him off to Hogwarts in the fall. He’s gotten letters from Sirius, telling him that everything is fine, they’re just busy, but no contact from them, save a generous cash gift for Christmas. Of course, he hasn’t told Tom this because then Tom would worry.

The first time Harry worried was when he wrote home to tell his dad that he’d made it onto the Quidditch team. Even when their relationship strained as Harry aged, Quidditch was the one thing they’d been able to bond over.

When Harry hadn’t heard anything back two weeks later, he’d written to Sirius in a blind panic, thinking the worst had happened.

No, his godfather had assured, they’re both well. Just busy. Too busy to write to their only son.

Harry pushes down the sick feeling in his stomach. Is this what his parents wanted to tell him? That they no longer wanted anything to do with him?

The sudden pain at his elbow catches Harry’s attention. Ever since their fight the second week of school, when Tom had left a bruise on Harry’s arm that hadn’t gone away for a week, he’s taken that as permission to be a little rougher with Harry.

Something in Tom’s eyes always catches a little on Harry’s arms after he’s grabbed him particularly hard. He watches Harry a little closer, gives him a little more attention. Now that his parents aren’t talking to him, Harry can’t bring himself to tell Tom to stop, not if it means his attention will wander to more interesting subjects.

Like Draco Malfoy.

Still, Tom’s focused on Harry at the moment, even if his nails are digging into Harry’s skin. “Are you listening to me?”

Harry shakes his head to break himself out of his thoughts. “Sorry,” he says. “What did you say?”

Tom sighs, using his hold on Harry to shift a little closer. “I said,” he repeats, sounding put-out, “are you sure you don’t want me to ask the Malfoy’s if you can visit?”

Harry wrinkles his nose without thinking.

The hold on Harry’s elbow tightens in warning. Tom hates it when Harry makes fun of his friends. “I’m sure,” he answers, trying not to wince. “Just go, Tom. I’ll see you in September.”

Tom lets him go after a long moment, making sure to gently rub at where he was holding. “Remember to write to me every week,” he says finally. “Every week, Harry.”

Managing by some miracle of nature not to roll his eyes, he nods. “I remember,” he says. “You’ve only told me fifty times since we left Hogwarts.”

Tom’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t say anything else, turning to head towards the Malfoys. Harry watches him leave, a pit opening in his stomach. He’s alone in the station now, and the attendants are looking at him with pity.

How could his parents forget that he was coming home from Hogwarts?

Glumly, Harry makes his way out of the station, sitting on a bench outside and letting his feet swing. Muggles are giving his trunk strange looks as they pass, but Harry pays them no mind. He rubs at his elbow absently. It’s still sore, and he wonders if Tom left another bruise.

Some twisted part of him wishes that Tom did. It would be something of him for Harry to hold on to, even if it’s just for a few days.

He’s not sure how much time passes before a loud voice barks at him. “Boy!”

Harry glances up in alarm. The station had been growing more and more empty, and there’s no one else around but him. He spots a fat, older man with a quivering walrus mustache and red cheeks. “Me?” He points at himself, confused. He’s never seen this man before in his life.

“Yes, you,” the man snaps. “Up.” He literally snaps this time, pressing his fingers together.

Harry can’t do anything but blink in confusion. “ _Now_ , boy!” the man says again, practically spitting. In a daze, Harry climbs to his feet. Being kidnapped by a fat Muggle man is definitely the strangest thing to happen to him so far.

It isn’t until he’s in the back of a car, his trunk stuffed in the boot, that the horrible realization of what’s happened sinks in. Harry listens with dread as the fat man introduces himself as Vernon ( _“That’s Uncle Vernon, to you.”_ ) and tells Harry that his parents have pawned him off on his Aunt Petunia, who is a lovely woman that never has any interaction with freaks like him and his parents, and is only taking him in because of a large donation to the Dursleys’ vacation fund.

After that, Harry stops listening.

Harry adjusts to life at the Dursleys as well as can be expected. He’s shoved into the smallest bedroom on the second floor of a disturbingly suburban home, and the door locks behind him. The next morning, he’s awoken before the sun by his aunt, pushed downstairs and told he’s to spend the day fixing the yard. He’s half-certain that Petunia considered having him make breakfast, but saw the confusion on his face at the sight of a Muggle stove and reconsidered.

Instead, he’s deposited outside and ordered to fix her begonias. Harry’s never heard of a begonia before, but he guesses they’re the flowers growing in front of the house. They look identical to all the other flowers growing in front of all the other houses on the street, but he does as told.

This becomes the routine for the rest of his summer.

The one time Harry tries to avoid their schedule for him, sneaking out early and staying away for most of the day, the door is locked by the time he gets back to the house. He considers trying to climb up to his room, but thinks the prospect of breaking his neck is more trouble than it’s worth. He ends up spending the night shivering on a park bench, only to stumble back to the Dursleys’ house early in the morning. His aunt is waiting for him, and shoves a mop into his hands as soon as he enters the house. He spent the whole day doing grueling labor on no sleep and no food, and quickly learns his lesson.

The other variable of his summer is his cousin, Dudley. He’s bigger than Harry, with pink, round cheeks and wispy blonde hair. He also is followed around by a pack of schoolboys who worship the ground he walks on. Dudley’s prerogative this summer, apparently, is to torment Harry.

It isn’t until the week before Harry is supposed to return to Hogwarts that this becomes a problem. Late in the afternoon, Harry finds himself surrounded by Dudley’s friends. They leave him with a bloodied lip and what feels like a black eye, after one of their fists caught the side of his eye socket. His ribs don’t feel particularly pleasant either, and deep inhales send a sharp stab of pain through his chest. “Freak,” Dudley spits at him before they leave.

Harry lies on the ground, breathless, long after Dudley’s group grows bored of him. The sun is beating down on him, and even after he closes his eyes, he can still see the brightness.

If he’s being honest with himself, this has probably been the worst summer of his life. Sure, his parents aloof behavior hurt, but not nearly as much as being dumped on his mother’s Muggle relatives does. He thinks, with a pang, that he misses Tom.

He feels Tom’s absence sharply, wonders if Tom was worried when he didn’t hear from Harry this summer. Harry hopes that Tom missed him too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u for reading !! if u made it this far, i hope you stick around for the rest. fair warning, i haven't finished writing the last half yet. i have about 10k words written already and i'll do my best to finish by the end of the month. i hope you enjoyed so far <3


	2. This is When Things Start to Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Tom grow closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well...i never promised that i wasn't a liar. but here's chapter 2!! enjoy :)

When he finds Tom on the train, the other boy stares at him cooly for a moment. Harry’s standing in the door of his compartment, waiting for an invitation to come in. The compartment is empty, save for Tom, but there’s a strange tension in the air. “Well,” Tom says eventually. “Are you coming in?”

Harry moves quickly, not willing to risk Tom changing his mind. He sits across from his friend, careful so as not to jostle his ribs, which are still sore. He’s still having trouble breathing properly and without pain, and knows he’s going to have to see Madam Pomfrey when he gets back. Tom, looking down at a book in his lap, doesn’t notice the way Harry winces as he sits.

A long silence passes, filled only by the sounds of other students passing by their compartment. Tom turns the page, loud enough to send a pointed signal to Harry. He’s mad and he’s ignoring Harry on purpose.

“How was your summer?” Harry asks, even though he doesn’t want to be the one to break the silence. “The Malfoys treat you alright?”

Tom scoffs. He shuts his book with a loud noise and tosses it to the side, seemingly abandoning his ever-present composure. “I told you to write,” he says, ignoring Harry’s question. He must have been stewing on this for a while, if he’s abandoned any pretense of subtlety.

“I know,” Harry answers, feeling miserable. “I meant to, but it wasn’t that simple.”

Tom makes a face, the knuckles of his fingers white from how hard he’s clenching his seat. “It’s very simple,” he says. “I told you to write. Every week. So you should have written, every week.”

“I wanted to! Really.” Harry feels the knot in his stomach tighten. “There wasn’t any chance.”

Tom leans forward, bending over the space between the two seats. “If you didn’t want to be my friend, you should have just told me.” Tom’s managed to rebuild the mask over his emotions, but he can’t quite hide the edge of hurt to his voice. “You’re not my only option, so I hope you remember that in the future.” His voice takes a nasty tone, sharp and cruel.

Harry sucks in a hurt breath, flinching slightly when the action pulls at his chest. His hand rises to cover his chest, and Tom follows the action with unblinking eyes. His gaze moves up to make eye-contact with Harry.

Eyes narrowing, Tom tilts his head slightly. He’s practically ready to strike, Harry thinks. In a sudden flurry of movement, Tom pushes himself to his feet, moving towards Harry and sitting next to him.

He grabs Harry’s chin with gentle fingers, tilting his head towards the light. Harry flinches back at the sudden movement, hissing in pain as the action jostles his ribs. Tom’s grip is firm and not tight enough to cause him pain.

“Have you been fighting?” He asks, his voice nonchalant. From Harry’s position, he can see the fire starting to rage in his eyes.

The truth is humiliating. But if he wants Tom to forgive him, Harry doesn’t know another way. “No,” he says, slowly. Tom’s touch is grounding: a familiar presence that he’s missed more than he realized. “My cousin. And his friends.”

Tom drops his fingers from Harry’s chin, sliding them up to brush over the fading bruise at his eye socket. “Cousin?”

So, Harry tells him.

By the time he finishes talking, Tom’s face has set into a familiar stony expression. It’s the look he gets when anyone mentions his Muggle last name, or when one of the other Slytherins makes a snide comment about Harry’s mother, or Harry spends too much time hanging out with Gryffindors.

“Muggles did this to you,” he says finally, his voice frosty. He runs a thumb over the edge of Harry’s bruise, his eyes roving over Harry’s face and catching where his lip is still a little swollen.

Harry nods, unsure of what else to say.

“And your parents just...left you with them.” Tom’s voice has dropped even further, which Harry didn’t think was possible. He nods again, miserable.

The sound of the door sliding open interrupts them. “Ah, Tom,” Draco Malfoy’s cool voice rolls over the compartment. Harry looks up past his friend and sees the blonde boy standing in the door, something close to a sneer on his face when he meets Harry’s eyes. “We’re waiting for you. You said it wouldn’t be long.”

Harry wonders if Tom had planned on ending his friendship with him. If he was so upset at Harry’s purported ignoring of him that he was just going to cut things before they could go any further. The idea makes him even more miserable, and he does his best to sink into himself.

Tom doesn’t even look at Draco, his back to the door. His eyes are still focused on Harry’s mouth, his thumb still rubbing gently over the bruise at Harry’s eye.

“Don’t wait,” he says, his voice more indifferent than coldly furious. “I’m going to be a while.”

Malfoy’s eyes narrow, and a dark scowl crosses his face, but he seems to know not to argue with Tom, especially when he’s not even paying attention to him. “Very well,” he says instead. Shooting Harry another nasty glare, he turns and shuts the door behind him.

Harry sits very quietly as Tom works through whatever is running through his mind. He doesn’t want to upset the other boy, send him running back to the Slytherins. More selfishly, he likes having Tom’s full attention on him. After a summer of isolation with the Dursleys, Harry feels like he’s more touch-starved than usual.

After a long silence, in which the train pulls away from the station, Tom drops his hand from Harry’s face. He misses the touch almost instantly.

“Come here,” Tom says, maybe noticing the way Harry’s face falls and the way he pulls in on himself even further. He holds one arm out to Harry. Surprised, but not willing to let him change his mind, Harry scooches closer on the seat, so Tom can wrap an arm around Harry’s shoulders.

He buries his face in Tom’s chest, listening to the thump of his heart and the sound of his breathing. His mind whites out, all the stress of the summer dripping away with the feeling of Tom gently scratching his nails up and down Harry’s back.

They don’t hug often, both growing too old for that kind of intimacy without it becoming awkward, but Harry supposes that Tom’s in a giving mood.

“If he ever lays a finger on you again,” Tom breaks the silence, startling Harry after so long, “I’ll kill him.”

His voice is solemn that Harry doesn’t doubt he’s speaking the truth. Somehow, the thought doesn’t bother him as much as it should. Sure, he doesn’t actively wish for Dudley’s death, but the idea that someone is willing to do anything for him, even kill, is satisfying in it’s own right.

“You’re staring again,” Ron Weasley says, sounding amused. Harry waves a hand in his general direction, unable to tear his eyes away from the slope of Cho Chang’s neck as she pulls her hair into a long ponytail. “You’re going to make her uncomfortable,” Ron says again, snickering.

Harry finally looks away from the Ravenclaw table, his cheeks feeling warm. He doesn’t want to make her uncomfortable. She’s just so– _pretty_.

With a groan, Harry buries his face in his hands. He’s sitting at the Gryffindor table so he doesn’t have to worry about decorum, the remains of their breakfast spread out around them while the other fourth-years compare schedules. Cho is a very pretty fifth-year, one who plays Quidditch and always sends Harry soft smiles in the hallways.

Harry thinks he’s fallen head over heels for her.

From beside him, Ron laughs again, nudging him in the side. “You could always, I don’t know, talk to her?”

Harry sends his friend a betrayed look. Once he’s looked up from his hands, he can’t help but look back over at the Ravenclaw table where Cho is laughing at something one of her friends said. Her cheeks are slightly pink, and her hair looks shiny and soft.

He’s taken to eating at the Gryffindor table in the mornings, partially because it offers a better view of the Ravenclaw table and partially because being surrounded by the sunny Gryffindors helps him brace himself for the day.

His attacks are getting stronger, and Harry finds it hard not to become touch-averse when it shakes him up so badly. He’s taken a great shine to Ron, because the other boy always tastes of sunshine and baked bread and freshly cut grass, and all Harry ever sees are hazy images of a large family, a sun-soaked field, laughter.

When he sits at the Slytherin table, even with Tom’s wall of ice next to him, he can’t help but drink mouthfuls of dark green, silvers, indigo blues, full of pain and jealousy and grief. Harry knows Tom’s not happy about it, but the other boy doesn’t say anything to dissuade him.

Ron, who was still laughing next to him, grows quiet. Curious, Harry manages to drag his eyes away from where Cho is packing her bag to see what’s got Ron to stop laughing.

His eyes meet Tom’s, staring at him with a blank expression. His mouth is pinched with something that Harry recognizes as irritation, even if Ron can’t pick up on it. Still, by their fourth year, Tom has racked up a reputation and the red-head is well aware of that. Harry watches as Tom turns his head, following where Harry had been looking.

He can tell by the way Tom flexes his fingers around the strap of his book bag that he spots Cho Chang. Tom turns slightly to face Harry. “Come on,” he says. “We’re going to be late.”

Scrambling to stand, Harry tosses a rushed goodbye to Ron and makes his way to Tom’s side. Their arms brush at the shoulder, and Tom tucks a finger under the strap of Harry’s bag, using that to direct him where he wants.

They exit the castle, out into the courtyard. Harry remembers belatedly that they have double Herbology and they’re meeting in the greenhouses.

It’s fall now, past Halloween and further into November. The air has a chill and Harry’s shivering before he realizes it. Tom pauses, pulls Harry to a stop. “You’ve done it all wrong,” he says, his voice quiet as he looks at how Harry’s haphazardly thrown on his scarf and buttoned his outer robe. “Come here.” His voice is still quiet, but it’s softer now. More fond.

Tom takes a step closer, untying the scarf at Harry’s neck. They’re in the corner of the courtyard, mostly hidden if anyone were to pass by. In the process, his hands press against Harry’s neck. Tom’s skin is cold and Harry hisses slightly from the shock. Tom makes a disapproving noise. “That’s what you get for being so rushed,” he says, fussing at the knot of the scarf.

When he’s finally satisfied, he moves to unbuttoning and buttoning Harry’s cloak in the correct way. After he finishes, he stands in front of Harry for a moment, his hands hanging at his side. His breath makes small clouds in the air as he exhales.

“She’s very pretty,” Tom says, off-hand.

Harry makes a choking noise, caught off guard. His eyes fly to Tom’s face. The other boy is watching Harry steadily. “W-what?”

Tom tilts his head in a bird-like motion. “Don’t you think so? That _is_ why you’ve been watching her, isn’t it? For months now.”

“W-who are you talking about?” Harry stumbles over his words. His brain is ringing alarm bells, and every part of this conversation seems like a trap. He hadn’t realized Tom had been watching him so closely.

Tom laughs softly, taking a step forward to smooth his hands down and across Harry’s shoulders. It’s not a kind sound, more mocking, like he’s just humoring Harry. “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” he says. “I just want you to know it’s okay with me.”

Harry’s mouth drops. “Okay with you?” He barks out, but Tom is already turning to go down to the greenhouses.

“Mm,” Tom murmurs, slowing down so Harry can catch up. The corner of his mouth is turned up into a small smirk.

Flustered, Harry stammers. “I don’t need your approval if I want to-” his voice cuts off as he finds himself at a loss for how to finish the thought.

“If you want to, what, Harry?” Tom turns pitiless eyes on him. The bastard is taking great pleasure in humiliating Harry like this, he just knows it.

There is no way for him to end this conversation without losing to Tom, so Harry just stays silent. “Nevermind,” he mutters, crossing his arms across his chest.

It’s not the first time they’ve argued about girls, he thinks, later.

Harry started to wonder about what kissing a girl would be like in his third year.

It starts innocently enough. Harry’s stretched out along Ron Weasley’s bed on his stomach, listening with great amusement as Neville moans about his Potions essay and the way Slughorn hates him, while Ron cackles in the back. Gradually, the conversation turns to the topic of girls.

Ron’s older twin brothers, Fred and George, had been loudly talking about asking Angelina Johnson and Katie Bell to Hogsmeade at breakfast that morning, and the incident had gotten Ron thinking about which girl he wanted to ask to Hogsmeade.

“What about you, Harry?” Ron asks, after determining that Lavender Brown was his pick. “Got your eye on anyone?”

Harry feels slightly flustered. He guesses he’s never really thought about it before. “Not really,” he answers truthfully. Ron gives him a long look, but doesn’t press the issue further.

The rest of the day, Harry runs over the question in his head. Because he doesn’t know any better at this point, he decides to take the question to Tom later that night.

Their dorm is quiet, the rest of the boys in their year in the Common Room. Tom likes to banish them for a few hours every night so he can get his reading done. He likes to think he just wants to spend some time alone with Harry but he has no way of proving it.

“Tom?” Harry asks, sitting at the end of the bed with his legs tangled in between Tom’s. The other boy doesn’t look up from his book, but he reaches out and lays a hand on Harry’s ankle, acknowledging him. “Do you think about girls, ever?”

The only sign that Tom hears him is his hand tightening around Harry’s ankle.

Harry keeps talking, even though he’s fairly certain he’s only digging a bigger hole for himself. “I think I do.” He’s been noticing little things, like the way Ginny Weasley’s hair looks like fire when the sun catches it, and the way Hermione Granger’s nose scrunches up when she laughs, and even the way Pansy Parkinson wears some kind of flowery perfume that always makes Harry feel warm.

There’s a loud noise as Tom snaps his book shut and sits up, his hand becoming vice-like on Harry’s ankle. “So what?”

Harry just stares at Tom, unsure of where this hostility is coming from. When he’d talked to Ron and Neville earlier, it had just seemed like a game of sorts. Something they could laugh about without it being too serious. Judging by the way Tom is glaring at him, it’s very serious.

“So nothing,” he says slowly, unsure of himself. “I just...” his voice trails off and he squirms in discomfort. “You’re hurting me,” he says, even though it doesn’t hurt too bad. Not yet.

Tom doesn’t let go of his ankle. “Are you trying to mock me? Is this some sick joke that one of those stupid Weasleys thought up and roped you into?”

“What?” Harry gapes at Tom, his ankle forgotten. “No? We were talking about it earlier and I’ve never thought about it, not really. I just wanted to know if you had. It’s not like girls ignore you. Pansy Parkinson acts like your little guard dog.” He grows more angry as he talks. It’s just like Tom, to spin this and make it Harry’s fault somehow, when he’s the one with an issue.

Something Harry says must strike Tom, because he tilts his head slightly, his eyes unfocusing. His hand slides loose around Harry’s ankle, fingers drifting under the fabric of his pants to rub over the skin. Harry relaxes slightly, getting the sense that the worst of it is over.

“Oh,” Tom says, finally. “Yes, that makes more sense.” His rubbing turns into a gentle scratching, and Harry twists back into a more comfortable position, a pleasant feeling running through him at the sensation. “I do too.”

It’s surprising to hear Tom admit he thinks about anything other than school and his plans for political domination once he graduates from Hogwarts. “You do?” Harry can’t help the shock that colors his voice.

Tom doesn’t say anything else, picking his book back up with one hand. The other stays on Harry’s ankle, lightly running his nails across the skin.

Later that night, as Harry is laying in bed thinking about the events of the day, his mind drifts onto the idea of kissing a girl. He wonders how it would feel, if he would like it. Without his permission, he starts thinking about what it would be like to kiss a boy too. Would it be different? He notices details about boys as often as he does girls.

He thinks about boys too, but he decides to keep that to himself. Who knows how Tom would take it and Harry can’t handle any more of his sudden mood swings. It’s exhausting keeping up with him sometimes.

When it’s announced that the school is holding a Yule Ball this year to celebrate the holidays and to “bring the Houses closer together” Harry wonders if he should make his move now.

“She’s so pretty,” he complains to Ron, watching longingly from afar as Cho crosses the courtyard with a gaggle of Ravenclaw girls. “And she’s always with other people. How am I going to get her alone?”

Ron just snickers. “Beats me,” he says. “I plan on going stag. Why don’t you join me?”

He would, if he could. Going alone seems like his best option at this point. “Can’t,” he says glumly, rubbing his hands together for warmth. “Slytherins have to show up with a date. House rules.”

Ron gives him a strange look. “What? Why?”

With a shrug, Harry tries to find the best way to explain. He hadn’t been listening very closely to Slughorn’s lecture anyway, and had gotten the gist of it from Tom. “Something about appearances and House unity,” he answers.

Ron makes a dramatic noise, shuddering in disgust. He wrinkles his nose. “Doesn’t it ever get tiring?” he asks. “All the pretentious House unity stuff.”

“Not really,” Harry answers, trying to keep his calm. He’s tried many times to explain to Ron that Slytherins get a bad reputation for nothing, that even if the House is more traditional, that doesn’t mean it’s something he dislikes. Harry, for one, enjoys the routine and rules that dictate his days. Far better than the rambunctiousness of Gryffindor, for one. He wisely chooses not to say that to his friend, who takes any slight against his House as a slight against himself.

“Well,” Ron says with a sniff, “it would tire me.”

Harry scowls at him. “That’s probably why you’re in Gryffindor, hm?”

Seemingly abashed, Ron flushes and ducks his head. “Sorry,” he says. “Habit.” He pauses before saying his next thought. “Who’s Riddle taking?”

Harry grins. Tom had been somewhat indifferent to the idea of a Yule Ball, more put out about the fact he had to take a date and make, in his words, “pointless small talk for three hours” when really, all he wanted to do was meet the various Ministry officials who had been invited. He’d already been approached by five particularly bold girls, two Ravenclaws, two Hufflepuffs and one blushing Gryffindor.

“We have a bet,” Harry says, instead of explaining everything else.

Ron raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t take Riddle as the betting kind.”

“He’s not, really,” Harry answers. “Unless he knows he’s going to win.”

Ron laughs, sounding a little uncomfortable. “So, you’re going to lose? Otherwise he wouldn’t have agreed. Is that what you’re saying?”

Harry just shrugs, choosing not to elaborate any further.

The terms of the bet were simple. In the group of second years were the Black sisters, twins. Both of whom, Harry knew, had a raging crush on Tom. His friend knew this too. Always gave them indulgent smiles in the hallway, laughing under his breath as they giggled and blushed moving past him. So, Harry bet him that they would be too shy to ask him to the Yule Ball. Tom, ever-confident in himself, accepted. The stakes were relatively low, an unspecified favor for whoever won, and Harry was going to make sure he won.

Tom thought he had the upper hand, with his slight smiles, light eyes and dark hair, his sharp jawline. But Harry had the advantage of being related, however distantly, to the twins. Their father was Regulus Black, Harry’s godfather’s brother.

After hearing that Harry’s parents had sent him to the Muggles for the summer, Sirius had been furious. Apparently, they’d told him Harry had just gone for a few weeks and he hadn’t thought anything of it. Harry’s been promised he can stay with Sirius over any other breaks, so he doesn’t have to worry about going back to the Dursleys.

(“It’s absolutely outrageous,” Sirius fumes, one weekend in Hogsmeade. He’d come to sort out the details with Harry. “James has lost his bloody mind. Sending you to live with Muggles. Pah.”

Harry stares at his godfather, curious at his emotions. He’s never seen the other man so angry before. Usually Sirius is full of life, laughter dancing in his eyes.

“Maybe they were just trying to protect me,” Harry says, taking the side of the devil, just to see how Sirius reacts.

The other man flushes, his fist clenching on the table. “Protect you,” he sneers, “if they really wanted to protect you, they would have taught you how to manage it. Shown you love and compassion. They’re too scared to try. Dumbledore’s got them–” Finally he gets ahold of himself, cutting off his tirade before he reveals something he doesn’t mean.

Harry sips at his Butterbeer, pleased with the reaction he’s garnered. “Dumbledore’s got them what?” he asks, trying to sound innocent. Sirius, oblivious to Harry’s plotting, scowls darkly. He’s too much of a Gryffindor to think anything of it, even if he is surrounded by Slytherins on all sides.

Still, he glances at Harry like he’s reconsidering. “I really shouldn’t say.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” Harry says earnestly. He’ll tell Tom of course, but Sirius doesn’t need to know that.

Sirius scowls again. “James has always followed Dumbledore. Lily, too. It just doesn’t surprise me that they would listen to him, that’s all.”

Nodding like he understands, Harry takes another sip of his drink to buy him time while he processes what Sirius is saying. “But you won’t let them send me back, will you?” he asks, finally. “They treated me like a servant.”

Sirius slams the palm of his hand down on the table, shaking the glasses. Harry blinks at him, pulling his drink a little closer to himself. “Sorry,” Sirius says. “I just– yes, don’t worry. I won’t let them send you back. We’ll get you sorted out for the summer, and you should come for winter break as well. I’ve been summoned to the family home, but other than that, we should be able to make an event of it. Sound good?”

Harry smiles at his godfather, murmuring his acknowledgement, satisfied.)

The point of this being, Harry catches the twins in the corridor one afternoon and manages to corral them both into an empty classroom.

“What do you want, Potter?” Lyra asked, sticking her nose up in the air. Her sister, Cassiopeia, sends Harry a soft smile. She’d always been the nicer of the two.

Harry crosses his arms. “Which one of you was planning on asking Tom to the Yule Ball?”

The sisters look at each other. Lyra’s cheeks are decidedly pink when she looks back at Harry. “What does it matter?” Her eyes narrow as she thinks of something. “You didn’t tell him, did you?”

“So, you were going to?” he asks Lyra, ignoring her question. “How’d the two of you even decide?”

Lyra’s blush deepens. “That’s none of your business.” She tosses her head back in a haughty manner. “What’s your point?”

“You can’t ask him,” Harry says. Lyra makes a noise of outrage. “Beside,” he says, “he’s already decided to go with Daphne Greengrass.”

Cassiopeia makes a gagging noise. Harry turns a surprised look in her direction. “She’s terribly rude,” Cassiopeia says.

“I can ask whoever I want,” Lyra says, drawing the attention back to herself. “Besides, I won’t be able to go if I don’t. Only third-years and up can go, unless you’re asked.”

Harry resists the urge to roll his eyes. “I just need you not to ask him. What will it take?”

Lyra and Cassiopeia exchange glances. They lean in, dark curls blocking his view as they put their heads together, whispering about something. Harry does roll his eyes this time. They certainly have the same flair for dramatics as Sirius, he thinks. That must be where they got it from, because the few times Harry’s met Regulus, the man was incredibly reserved.

“We’re having a Yule dinner,” Lyra says, pulling away from her sister. She crosses her arms across her chest. “You’ll be there, of course, it’s already been decided that Sirius is coming and we know you’ll be with him. Make sure Tom is there and we want an introduction.” Lyra pauses. “A proper one.”

Harry sighs, but figures that’s easy enough. For all he knows, Lyra is planning on trapping Tom under the mistletoe, but he decides that’ll be Tom’s problem should it come to pass. “Fine,” he says. “Do we have an agreement?”

Lyra smiles beautifically. She holds out her hand. “Of course. Make sure you hold up your end.”

“I will, as long as you do,” Harry says, shaking her hand. A cool silk grey slides across his senses like a finely made dress. He hears the sound of bells and tastes mint tea. He returns her smile.

Cassiopeia laughs suddenly. “I’m glad you’ll be around more, Harry,” she says earnestly when he looks at her. “We always wanted to have an older brother, and Draco is too obsessed with himself to be any fun.”

Harry feels like he should dispute any sort of familial connection, but doesn’t really have the heart. He steps aside to let the twins pass by. Cassiopeia brushes against him on the way out, and he tastes a dark, pine green from her. Hears the same bells as Lyra, with the sound of a fire crackling. Yes, he thinks, watching them leave. This will be okay.

The next morning, Harry is in the owlery to send a letter to Sirius, asking if Tom can come over for the holidays. Tom had agreed to come if he was welcome last night, a knowing look in his eyes. Normally, Tom doesn’t bet if he knows he isn’t going to win, but Harry has the sneaking suspicion that his friend is rolling over for him.

Hedwig, the pretty snow owl Sirius gave him as a birthday present this year, preens under his attention. “This is for Sirius,” he tells her. She coos, nips gently at his fingers and takes off across the campus.

“Pretty bird,” a soft voice comes from behind him. Harry jumps, turns, and is fairly certain the tops of his ears are turning a dark red. Cho Chang is standing in the entrance of the owlery, her long, dark hair in a plait down her back. Her cheeks are slightly pink from the cold and he can see melting snow in her hair. It isn’t until she clears her throat that Harry realizes he’s been staring.

“Yes,” he manages to get out. “Thank you. She was a gift.”

Cho smiles at him. It makes her eyes crinkle at the corner slightly. He’s never been close enough to her to know that. “What’s her name?” She’s tying something wrapped in brown parchment onto the leg of a tawny owl who gazes at Harry with flat amber eyes.

“Hedwig,” Harry says a bit belatedly. “What about yours?” He nods at the tawny owl.

Cho smoothes a hand down its feathers. “Heather,” she says. Silence falls over the owlery as Cho finishes tying the package on and sends the owl out the window. She’s turning to leave, halfway out the door, before Harry realizes she’s alone. Now is his opportunity.

“Ah, Cho,” he says, starting forward. She looks over her shoulder, smiling softly. His breath catches in his throat. “Would you like to go to the Yule Ball with me?”

Her smile freezes on her face as she stares at him. There’s a slight pink flush dusting her cheeks. With gloved fingers, she pushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Oh,” she says, no heat in her voice. “Oh, Harry, I’d really love to. It’s just that someone already asked me, and I said yes.”

His stomach falls, but someone he manages to return her smile. “Okay,” he answers. His voice sounds normal to his great relief. “Would you mind me asking who?”

Cho’s blush deepens. _Idiot_ , Harry chides himself. He’s making her uncomfortable. “Sure,” she says, clearing her throat a little. “Cedric Diggory. He’s a Hufflepuff?”

Harry nods. “Well,” he says, taking a small step back and away from her. “I hope you have fun.”

“You too, Harry,” Cho answers. “I’m sure whoever you go with will be a lucky girl.” She leaves the owlery, just the faintest scent of her perfume lingering in the room. Harry stares blankly for a moment, before following after her.

He faceplants into his pillows when he gets back to the dorm. Tom, awake and making his bed, doesn’t even look at Harry. “Get up,” he snips, sitting down on his bed to tie his boots on. “We have places to be.”

Harry mutters something not very pleasant into the pillows.

“You should be thankful I couldn’t understand what you said just now,” Tom says, pleasantly. “I don’t think it was very kind. You do know how I value kindness.”

Tom is gloating, Harry knows. He took one look at Harry after the owlery and must have known instinctively what happened. His friend is particularly unbearable when he’s gloating.

“I hate you,” Harry groans, twisting so he’s facing up instead of into his bed. “Can’t you tell I’m in mourning?”

Tom scoffs. He’s standing now, pulling on his scarf and cloak. “Mourning what? A relationship with a girl you never had a conversation with before today?” He pulls on Harry’s ankle. “Get up.”

“We played Quidditch together,” Harry says, petulant. He’s acting childish, but he can’t control the way he’s still uncomfortably disappointed.

“You did,” Tom agrees. “Now it’s time to get up, grow up, and move on.”

Harry pushes himself into a sitting position, leaning back on his elbows so he’s sprawled across his bed. “You’re gloating,” he complains, voicing his earlier thoughts. In response, Tom throws Harry his cloak and scarf.

“I never gloat,” he answers serenely. “I’m going to the Common Room. I’m waiting for five minutes and if you’re not ready by then, I’m leaving without you.”

Over the next couple of weeks, not much changes. Harry notices Cho and Cedric together in the halls more often. Cedric is a tall seventh-year who’s the seeker on the Hufflepuff Quidditch team. He’s unbearably nice and Harry hates him almost instantly.

Harry ends up taking Ginny Weasley to the Yule Ball. They agree to go as friends, after an uncomfortable instance where Ginny admits she just wants to go to the dance and Harry just wants someone who won’t complain over him not paying them any attention.

“Do you like her?” Tom had asked when he found out who Harry was taking.

Harry had just shrugged. “Do you like Daphne?” And that had been that.

(There is one awkward moment, a few days before the dance. Ginny comes up to the Slytherin table to confirm their plans. “‘Lo Harry,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“Hi,” he answers with a smile. “Just a second.”

He’s cramming his things into his bag when Draco Malfoy, down the table, leans forward. “Blood-traitors aren’t welcome here,” he says, not even looking up at Ginny. The students around them fall silent. Harry freezes, looking down the table at him in shock.

His eyes dart towards Ginny who is turning a bright shade of red that clashes with her hair. Rage wells up inside him. “Keep your mouth shut, Malfoy,” Harry snaps, coming to her defense.

As a Slytherin, he’s more aware than most about the tensions between Muggles and wizards, especially Purebloods. While Grindelwald may have lost his war, his rhetoric is still popular with a lot of the families with children in Harry’s year. Malfoy has always been particularly outspoken in his beliefs. His cheeks are turning pink at Harry’s reprimand. “Don’t forget your place, Potter,” Malfoy starts. “You may have a good name, but we all know where your mother–”

“Draco,” Tom says, his voice quiet. He cuts off whatever Malfoy was about to say, even though Harry has a fine idea of where he was going.

Tom hasn’t even looked up from his book. He puts down his fork, raising his head slowly. Malfoy is paleing, his eyes darting between Harry and Tom. “You’re making a scene,” Tom says, still quiet. “Apologize.”

Malfoy is still glancing between Harry and Tom. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “I’m sorry, Potter,” he says finally, to Harry. Tom taps his fingers on the table in a rhythmic motion. He doesn’t say anything. Malfoy drags his gaze to Ginny like it pains him to do so. “Sorry, Weasley,” he mutters.

Apparently satisfied, Tom turns a serene smile to Ginny who is still blushing down to the roots of her hair. “It’s nice to meet you, Ginevra,” he says. Harry, still in mild shock, snaps to his senses and stands. “I hope we’ll catch up later.”

Ginny just nods. “See you later, Harry,” Tom says and turns back to his book.)

“This is more boring than I thought it would be,” Harry says, leaning against the wall next to Tom. His friend is in the process of taking off his outer robe so he can roll his shirt sleeves up. Harry holds his robe, watching as the expanse of Tom’s forearms are exposed. They’d managed to nick a couple of bottles of firewhiskey when no one was looking and Harry’s mind feels pleasantly fuzzy, everything taking on a golden sheen.

Tom looks up at him with molten silver eyes and Harry smiles at him, wide and easy. His friend’s mouth curls into a smile, slow and lazy. “You look pretty,” Harry says, turning so his shoulder is against the wall. His head drops against it with a dull thud.

Still with his back to the wall, Tom turns his head so he’s facing Harry. “Thank you,” he says, his breath hitting Harry’s face. He smells like mint and firewhiskey, even if he hadn’t had as much as Harry.

“Aren’t you gonna tell me that I look pretty too?” Harry asks, sticking his bottom lip out in what he hopes is a pout.

Tom laughs under his breath. “You’re so drunk,” he says, his face relaxed and open. He’s drinking Harry in with something hungry in his eyes. Tom reaches up, running a hand through Harry’s curls, tugging at the back of his head. Harry lets his head fall with the pressure, allowing Tom to maneuver him how he wishes. All the firewhiskey has done is make him more tactile.

“You are,” Tom says, after a little while.

They’re sitting on the ground now, Harry’s head on Tom’s shoulder as he tries not to fall asleep. The party is winding down, but Sirius has yet to find them. They’d made the rounds earlier; Tom giving the promised introduction to the Black twins, shaking hands with several Ministry officials, Harry at his side the whole time, mildly afraid of the way Draco Malfoy was glaring at him. Now, they’re hidden in a corner, so it seems like it could just be the two of them alone.

It takes Harry a moment to realize Tom is speaking to him. His head feels heavy and stuffed full of cotton. “Am what?” he mumbles, pushing his head further into Tom’s shoulder. The other boy shifts, wrapping an arm around his shoulders so Harry can bury his face into the space between his shoulder and neck.

Tom smells good, like pine and mint and something a little sharper. Harry hums in pleasure and Tom’s grip on him tightens. “You are pretty, too,” he says, turning his head so he can rest his chin on the top of Harry’s head.

“Prettier than Lyra?” Harry asks, his mouth moving against the collar of Tom’s shirt. He wonders if Tom can feel it.

Tom’s chest raises sharply as he inhales and laughs softly. He’s running nails down Harry’s back in a soft scratching motion, and Harry thinks he could fall asleep like this. “Yes, Harry,” he says. “Prettier than Lyra.”

“Good,” Harry says, satisfied. He’s still a little drunk, he thinks. “Tom?”

“Yes?” He doesn’t stop running his fingers down Harry’s back.

“Am I still your favorite?” Harry asks, something he knows he wouldn’t if he were completely sober.

Tom doesn’t stop his ministrations, settling his chin further on top of Harry’s head. “Of course,” he answers. “Always.”

The other members of the team avoid Harry as he storms into the locker room. He slams his locker open, staring into the depths as he tries to get his breathing under control. He’s still glaring into his locker when Tom comes up behind him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“You scared everyone away,” he says, his voice mild.

Harry moves his hands down to rip off his Quidditch uniform, shoving it into his locker and slamming the door. When he turns around, Tom runs his eyes up Harry’s body, before meeting his gaze. “What are you doing here?”

“It was one loss,” Tom says instead of answering Harry’s question. Maybe he thinks it is an answer.

Either way, Harry’s anger isn’t doused. “Diggory is a filthy cheater,” he spits, pushing past Tom to where his clothes are laying out on the bench by his bag. “And it wasn’t just one loss. We’re done for the year. Because we lost.”

Tom is silent.

Ignoring him, Harry yanks his shirt over his head. He’s in the process of furiously lacing his shoes when Tom speaks again. “I’ve never seen you like this before.”

Harry scowls darkly. His mind is racing with ways to make the Hufflepuff pay. “Everyone knows I don’t like to be touched,” he snaps. When Harry had joined the Quidditch team, a memo had been given to all the captains to make sure they refrained from hitting into Harry mid-air and risking him falling from his broom if he was incapacitated.

When Harry and Cedric were racing for the Snitch during the game, the Hufflepuff had knocked Harry’s arm out of the way, their hands crashing together as he did so. Harry’d been overcome with deep reds that tasted like blood and an aching in his head, and by the time he’d managed to shake off the vision, the game was over.

“He was probably just caught up in the moment,” Tom says, sounding reasonable. Harry knows he’s probably right but he doesn’t feel like being reasonable right now.

He’s almost done packing his bag when he realizes something. Tom is leaning against the row of lockers, watching Harry with fathomless eyes. “You still owe me a favor,” Harry says.

Tom tilts his head, but he doesn’t dispute the fact. He’d lost their bet about the Yule Ball, even if Harry had almost forgotten about the whole thing all together.

“I want you to make it so that he can never play Quidditch again,” Harry says, watching as Tom’s eyes narrow at his words. He knows it’s an impossible request. At most, maybe Tom could try to get him suspended from the rest of the season. But afterwards, Cedric’s already signed into a five year Quidditch contract after graduation.

Part of Harry just wants to see how far Tom will go for him.

“If that’s what you want,” Tom says, his voice even. Harry nods, mute. His friend reaches out for him and pulls him to his feet, escorting him out of the locker room.

Two weeks later, Cedric Diggory falls down the stairs, breaking his leg and hitting his head so hard that not even magic could pull him out of the coma. He’s taken to St. Mungos instead, the level of treatment available from Madame Pomfrey unable to properly care for him. Harry overhears some professors talking about afterwards. They think it’s a miracle he didn’t die.

There were no witnesses to see him fall, only the person who found him. It’s ruled an accident.

Harry knows better. There’s a hollow pit inside of him as he sits at the Slytherin table during the last breakfast before summer break. Tom is next to him, one hand resting over Harry’s knee under the table.

Harry watches as Cho Chang cries into her napkin at the Ravenclaw table. When Tom squeezes his knee in a silent question, he looks away. Tom is staring at him, his head slightly tilted. Harry smiles at him, trying to make it look natural. “At least we’ll see each other this summer. Sirius says that we’ll have to go for a family dinner at least once a month.”

Tom returns his smile, looking satisfied. “I’m sure I can convince Draco to visit more than once a month.”

It’s much later before Tom ever asks Harry about Cedric Diggory. He picks a terrible time to do so, Harry thinks, but it’s very in-character for him. He’s plastered along Harry’s back, one leg wedged between Harry’s, an arm thrown over his stomach. He holds Harry like he’s afraid he’s going to run away.

“Was it because you were jealous?” Tom asks, speaking into Harry’s shoulder.

Harry, currently trying to swallow down the shades of red and silver, the sound of screaming and the taste of blood, doesn’t answer immediately. Tom presses a hot kiss to his skin, nipping gently with his teeth and smoothing over with his tongue afterwards. The small spark of pain helps clear Harry’s head enough to answer.

“What?” he asks in response, unsure of what Tom is talking about. He had to wake up early for work and Tom was gone from the moment he woke up. This is the longest conversation they’ve had all day.

Tom shifts slightly, so he’s more on top of Harry. “Did you ask me to do it because you were jealous.” Harry stares at him. “Of Diggory,” Tom clarifies, picking up on the blankness of Harry’s stare.

Hot shame crashes over Harry in a wave. Of all the things he’s done, he thinks that might have been the worst. _Was_ he jealous? Even if he was, using Tom to take out the competition for Cho didn’t really work. Whatever happened to her after Cedric’s accident made Harry uncomfortable. He never pursued anything with her, not after that.

“No,” he says, finally. “It wasn’t because I was jealous.”

Tom’s eyes narrow and Harry can tell he doesn’t really believe him. His gaze is sharp and cutting. Harry runs his fingers along the planes of Tom’s jawline, hoping to distract him. Sometimes, being with Tom is like giving up his whole identity. Tom will take and take and take anything Harry offers him.

He’s learned, now, to hoard some things to himself, unless he wants to lose who he is altogether.

Harry sits at the dinner table, Lyra and Cassiopeia across from him, Sirius and Regulus at opposite ends. The room is silent. Harry accidentally drags his fork along the plate and the screeching noise echoes through the room.

Cassiopeia coughs into her napkin, but from the pink blushing across her cheeks, Harry’s fairly certain she was hiding a laugh. Lyra raises her nose primly and cuts at her steak.

“How was the school year?” Sirius asks, breaking the silence. When Harry looks up, his godfather is watching him with pleading eyes.

“Oh,” Harry says, glancing across the table towards the twins. Lyra narrows her eyes at him. “It was good, I guess. We didn’t make it to the Quidditch finals, but I think I’m going to be tapped as Quidditch captain next year.”

“That’s good, Harry!” Sirius enthuses, a little too excited.

From the other side of the table, there’s a loud clinking noise as Regulus drops his silverware. Harry busies himself with buttering a roll. “I heard there was an accident,” he says, his voice low.

“An accident?” Sirius repeats, looking at Harry and the twins. “What happened?”

Harry avoids his godfather’s eyes. He’s not sure how he feels about what happened to Cedric. It’s been announced that he’s woken up, but it’s unlikely he’ll be the same as he was before the fall. His Quidditch contract has been rescinded. At least until he heals. There are murmurs of the accident not being completely accidental, talk of magic being involved somehow.

“Oh, it’s terrible,” Lyra enthuses. “Cedric Diggory had a fall and now he might never recover.” She pauses. “Didn’t you have a little crush on his girlfriend, Harry?”

Harry glares at her from across the table. “No,” he snaps. “Didn’t you–”

“We were thinking about sending flowers or something to his family,” Cassiopeia says, cutting Harry off before he can finish his sentence.

Lyra sniffs, still sending Harry a death glare. “Even if he is a Hufflepuff, he’s still a Pureblood and we should honor that.”

Harry stiffens, sitting up a little bit straighter.

“Lyra,” Regulus sighs, his voice gently chiding. “What have I said?”

The girl rolls her eyes but mutters an apology and sinks in her seat. A tense silence falls back over the room. Harry doesn’t look up from his plate. His stomach is twisting as he thinks about Cedric Diggory. About the fact that if it weren’t for him, Cedric would be fine.

Noticing his silence, Sirius covers Harry’s hand with his own on the table.

Harry freezes as a deep, stifling grey covers his senses. He can just barely make out Sirius asking him if he’s okay over the sound of rain and the smell of wet earth. He blinks, and he’s not sitting in the Black estate dining room. He’s in a field, staring at a gravestone. He blinks again and he’s back in the dining room, staring at the twins.

“Are you okay, Harry?” Sirius asks again, his hand still over Harry’s. He turns to look at his godfather, certain that he saw the other man’s grave. A cold feeling clenches around his heart.

“Yes,” he says, forcing a smile he can’t feel. “Sorry.”

It’s late afternoon, a few weeks before they’re due to start their fifth year at Hogwarts. Harry is sprawled across his bed, arm over his eyes, thinking about nothing in particular. Tom is sitting on the floor next to him, flipping through a book on the Slytherin family ancestry. He’d somehow convinced the Malfoys to let him come to Sirius’s flat in Muggle London, even though Harry knows Narcissa Malfoy hates Sirius almost as much as she hates Muggles.

“Harry?” Tom asks after a while, reaching up and tugging at his wrist to get his attention. He’d been respectful of Harry’s silence for a few hours, especially after Harry told him what he’d seen from Sirius.

Harry makes a small noise of acknowledgment, moving his arm behind his head. He squints slightly against the sudden light. The room is coated in a soft golden glow, and he can just make out Tom’s silhouette on the floor.

“What do you know about the Chamber of Secrets?” Tom asks, moving so he’s kneeling by the bed. He watches Harry with silver-grey eyes, his face loose and relaxed. Harry rolls his head to the side so he can look at Tom more directly.

He wrinkles his nose slightly at the question. “I know it’s located somewhere inside Hogwarts. Salazar Slytherin left something behind to purify the castle and only his heir will be able to open it.” His voice is hoarse from hours of not talking.

Tom’s been obsessed recently with his family history. Harry wonders if he thinks he’s the heir of Slytherin. His friend makes a humming sound, leaning his head against the mattress. “That’s what I’ve learned.” Tom holds eye contact with Harry, until he moves his arm over his eyes again.

“I’m too tired to think about anything right now,” Harry complains. “You’re going back tomorrow, right?”

Tom makes a noise of assent. Harry hears the loud thud of his book hitting the ground, which is the only warning he gets before the bed moves, dipping under Tom’s weight. “Move over,” he says, pushing at Harry’s leg.

“Don’t wanna,” Harry grumbles, going loose on the bed and letting his weight sink into the mattress. Ever since his one disastrous summer with the Dursleys, Harry’d lost any baby fat he might have had. He’s mostly skin and bones and the muscle that comes from Quidditch, but he’s still heavy enough that Tom has to shove him before he moves.

Tom wraps an arm over Harry’s waist, tugging so he moves towards the side of the bed. Harry goes pliant for him, letting Tom rearrange him where he pleases. When he’s satisfied, he drops down next to Harry. They’re pressed together from shoulder to hip, in a way they haven’t been since their first year.

“Wake me up when it’s time for dinner,” Harry sighs, dropping his arm from his face, and resting his head on Tom’s shoulder. The other boy has always been taller than him. Some things, he thinks, will always be the same.

“Oh, god,” Ginny Weasley says into Harry’s ear, pushing him away. He twists slightly, looking over his shoulder to see what she’s looking at. His mind and senses have been flooded with soft pinks and bright, warm reds but that haze lifts immediately when he sees what prompted her outburst.

Harry takes a step away from Ginny. He pulls down his shirt from where it had been riding up. He runs a hand through his hair. Harry’s not sure if any of it makes the situation any better. “Tom,” he says, going for innocent and winning. He smiles.

His friend is clearly unimpressed. His eyes drag over Harry from top to bottom. Harry feels like he’s been doused in ice just from his gaze. Tom finally meets Harry’s eyes again, silently letting him know they’re going to have a very unpleasant conversation later, before he shifts his attention to Ginny.

“It’s past curfew,” Tom says. While his voice isn’t cruel, there is no warmth to it. “You should both know better.”

Harry shifts his weight, about to speak. Tom silences him with a sharp look, his eyes glittering shards of ice. He decides to stay silent. “Tom!” Ginny squeaks, her cheeks turning as red as her hair. Harry looks at her in alarm. She and Tom are definitely not on a first-name basis, especially not now. He wonders if they even care in Gryffindor. Probably not, he decides, seeing as Ginny clearly sees nothing wrong in this situation.

Tom’s gaze returns to Ginny. He smiles at her. To the untrained eye, it would look friendly and warm, especially on Tom, who is not one for smiling often. But Harry knows his friend better than the average person, and can tell the way it’s pinched, his eyes still narrowed like he’s trying to decide the quickest way to murder Ginny and get away with it.

“Good evening, Ginny,” Tom says, still smiling. He turns his blazing eyes onto Harry, even while still talking to her. “Since this is your first infraction, I’ll let you go with a warning. Don’t let me catch you again or I’ll have to take points from Gryffindor and we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

Ginny throws Harry a bewildered look and he just shrugs. “Okay,” she says, sounding tentative. “Thank you.” With another look at Harry, she turns and leaves, smoothing down her hair and skirt.

And then Harry and Tom are alone.

Tom takes two quick steps forward, crowding Harry against the wall, in a position not unsimilar to the one he found Harry and Ginny in.

“Tom,” Harry says, his voice tangling in his throat for reasons he can’t put words to. Tom tilts his head slightly, his eyes sharp and hungry.

This is not how Harry thought his night would go, if he’s being honest with himself. Tom has been distant lately, busy with things like Prefect duties and Slughorn’s club and something else that’s put dark circles under his eyes and keeps him buried in a book whenever he’s not doing one of his other commitments.

Harry doesn’t mind, not really, especially since he knows how badly Tom wants to make a name for himself at Hogwarts. And he’s busy too, with Quidditch and keeping his grades up and somehow seeing Ginny became a part of that. They had gone to the Yule Ball together, and while it was just as friends, it had brought them closer together and given them things to talk about, when they hadn’t before.

When he asked her to go to Hogsmeade with him, it was only natural. How was he supposed to know that would lead to the two of them, making out in an abandoned corridor two weeks later, right where Tom would find them? Thinking back to how Tom found them, Harry with one hand on Ginny’s leg, the other starting to creep under her shirt, Ginny with both hands tangled in his hair, he starts to flush.

“What are you thinking about?” Tom asks, leaning in closer. He’s pressed against Harry, his weight keeping him pressed against the wall. “Ginny Weasley?” His voice doesn’t change, but somehow he manages to make her name sound like something dirty, not worth his time.

Harry just blinks at him, a little overwhelmed. He manages to shake his head. “No,” he says when he finds his voice. “I wasn’t thinking about her.”

It’s not a lie, not really. All he can think about right now is the way Tom is looking at him, the slope of cheekbones, the way he can pick out flecks of blue in his eyes.

“What are you thinking about then?” Tom asks, pressing closer than Harry thought physically possible.

His brain to mouth filter must be broken because there is no clear reason for what he says just now. “You,” he answers, as truthfully as he can.

Tom leans back, just a little bit, a pleased grin curving his mouth. “Me?” he asks, sounding smug. “You’re thinking about me?”

It’s a little unfair of him to gloat, Harry thinks, considering the way he’s pressed up against Harry. What else could he possibly be thinking of in this situation? “Yes,” he answers, all the same. “I was thinking about you.”

He leans his head against the wall, in the hopes that he can get some air that isn’t shared between him and Tom and clear his head. The movement bares his neck to Tom, and his friend’s eyes narrow in on a spot on his skin.

Tom presses his thumb against a bruise there, one Harry realizes must have been left by Ginny before Tom caught them. Or maybe, it’s one from earlier, that Tom hasn’t seen until now. Serves him right, Harry thinks, for leaving Harry by himself. “You have a bruise here,” Tom says, stating the obvious, and presses down on it until Harry winces.

“Yeah?” Harry asks, unable to stop himself from giving Tom an attitude. His friend is so hot and cold that Harry never knows what path to take with him.

Tom bends so his face is closer to Harry’s neck. He tilts his head slightly. Harry finds all of this ridiculous. It’s not like Tom’s never seen a hickey before. “I don’t like it when you’re bruised,” he says finally.

“You leave bruises on me all the time.” Harry rolls his eyes. Tom is never gentle with him, not that Harry has ever asked or wanted him to be.

Looking up at Harry with dark eyes, Tom’s mouth curls into a smile. “So,” he says. “Can I?”

Harry’s mind whites out for a moment. “Can you what?” he manages to ask.

Leaning back, Tom straightens so he’s standing at his full height again. He keeps his hand at Harry’s neck, thumb running over the bruise Ginny left. He drags his nail across it every so often. Something twists inside Harry at the way Tom is looking at him. His friend doesn’t answer the question, just watches Harry steadily.

“I– you want– but,” Harry stumbles over his words. Tom is attractive, Harry’s known that for years, but he didn’t realize he was going to have to confront his own feelings about his friend so soon. “Okay,” he answers finally. “You can.”

With a smile that takes Harry’s breath away, Tom pushes him harder against the wall, lowering his head to the opposite side of Harry’s neck. Harry blinks and stares ahead at nothing, his fingers twisting helplessly against the wall. He can’t deny how eager he is. What will it feel like, he wonders, to have Tom’s mouth on him, kissing him?

Tom presses his lips against the skin of Harry’s neck, soft and gentle, barely a touch. Harry stiffens. “Shh,” Tom murmurs against his skin, his breath coming out hot. “Be patient.” With one hand, he presses against Harry’s hip, pushing him into the wall.

His tongue darts out, tracing a spot against Harry’s neck. Harry sucks in a shuddering breath. He feels hot all over. It’s different from when he was kissing Ginny. He was in control then, and even when she kissed him the same way Tom is now, Harry was directing her where he wanted. Now, with Tom mouthing at his neck, Harry feels like he’s lost all sense of control and direction. The ground has dropped out from under him and the only thing keeping him upright are Tom’s hands at his hip

Without warning, Tom nips at his neck, and flattens his mouth over the spot, sucking hard. Harry’s pretty sure he forgets where he is for a moment, his only point of reference the feeling of Tom at his neck. Almost as soon as it’s started, Tom pulls away, his mouth red.

He tilts Harry’s head to the side with his hand, eyeing the spot he picked. Apparently, he’s satisfied with what he sees because he lets Harry go. Tom takes a step away from him. “I have to finish my rounds before I can go back to the dorm,” he says to Harry, his voice normal, like he wasn’t kissing Harry’s neck moments before. “You can come if you want, but if someone else catches us, you’ll have to follow my lead.”

Harry knows Tom wouldn’t offer to let Harry come with him unless he wanted Harry to go, so he nods and agrees, his brain still feeling like mush. How, he wonders, is he going to go back to normal with Tom after knowing he can kiss like that?

Absently, as he follows behind Tom and stares at his back, Harry wonders what it would feel like to kiss Tom for real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you liked it!! like. i'm not gonna sit here and say that the last chapter is going to be up by the end of the month like i did last time, but i'm out of school until january so the chances of that actually happening are much higher! thanks for reading <3


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